LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


^Us   4U* 

•  /      /  /, 


ALDRICH'S  POEMS 


THE   POEMS 


OF 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 


ILLUSTRATED 


BY 


THE  PAINT  AND   CLAY  CLUB 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 
New  York:    11    East  Seventeenth   Street 


1882 


LIBRARY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
PAVli 


Copyright,  1873  and  1876, 
BvT.  B.  ALDRICH. 

Copyright,  1882, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge: 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

FLOWER  AND  THORN 13 

I. 

CLOTH   OF  GOLD. 

PROEM 17 

A  TURKISH  LEGEND 18 

AN  ARAB  WELCOME 19 

THE  CRESCENT  AND  THE  CROSS 20 

THE  UNFORGIVEN 21 

DRESSING  THE  BRIDE 23 

TWO  SONGS  FROM  THE  PERSIAN 24 

TIGER-LILIES 26 

THE  SULTANA 27 

THE  WORLD'S  WAY 28 

LATAKIA 29 

WHEN  THE  SULTAN  GOES  TO  ISPAHAN 33 

HASCHEESH 35 

A  PRELUDE 36 

II. 

INTERLUDES. 

BEFORE  THE  RAIN 41 

AFTER  THE  RAIN                                                                                                                       .  42 


ii  CONTENTS. 

HESPERIDES 43 

CASTLES 44 

INGRATITUDE 45 

DECEMBER 46 

THE  FADED  VIOLET 48 

AMONTILLADO 49 

THE  LUNCH 51 

THE  ONE  WHITE  ROSE 52 

NAMELESS  PAIN 52 

LANDSCAPE 55 

AT  TWO-AND-TWENTY 56 

GLAMOURIE 57 

PALABRAS  CARINOSAS    58 

MAY 59 

THE  BLUEBELLS  OP  NEW  ENGLAND 60 

WEDDED 61 

ROMANCE 62 

DESTINY 63 

UNSUNG 64 

FROST-WORK 65 

ROCOCO 66 

HAUNTED      . 67 

FABLE 68 

A  SNOW-FLAKE 71 

IDENTITY 71 

ACROSS  THE  STREET 72 

NOCTURNE 73 

AN    UNTIMELY    THOUGHT 74 

RENCONTRE 75 

LOVE'S    CALENDAR 75 

A    WINTER-PIECE 76 

QUATRAINS 77 

Day  and  Night 77 


CONTENTS.  iii 

Maple  Leaves 77 

A  Child's  Grave 78 

Pessimist  and  Optimist 78 

Grace  and  Strength 78 

Among  the  Pines 78 

From  the  Spanish 79 

Masks 79 

Coquette 79 

Epitaphs 79 

Popularity 80 

Human  Ignorance 80 

Spendthrift .  80 

The  Iron  Age 80 

On  Reading 83 

The  Rose 83 

Moonrise  at  Sea 83 

The  Difference     • 83 

From  Eastern  Sources 84 

The  Parcse 84 

PALINODE 85 


III. 


SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

SPRING    IN  NEW  ENGLAND 89 

BABY    BELL 98 

PAMPINA 103 

LAMIA 106 

INVOCATION  TO  SLEEP 108 

SEADRIFT 110 

IN  THE  OLD  CHURCH  TOWER 114 

PISCATAQUA  RIVER 115 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  GODDESS  117 


iv  CONTENTS. 

ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD  OF  MINERVA 119 

AN  OLD  CASTLE 121 

LOST  AT  SEA 124 

IN  AN  ATELIER 126 

THE  QUEEN'S  RIDE 129 

DIRGK 133 

THE  PIAZZA  OF  ST.  MARK  AT  MIDNIGHT 135 

THE  METEMPSYCHOSIS 136 

THORWALDSEN 140 

IV. 

FRIAR  JEROME'S   BEAUTIFUL  BOOK,   ETC. 

FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK 143 

MIANTOWONA 154 

THE  GUERDON 162 

TITA'S  TEARS 165 

THE  LADY  OF  CA8TELNORE 167 

THE  TRAGEDY 171 

THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI 174 

JUDITH. 

I.  Judith  in  the  Tower 191 

II.  The  Camp  of  Assur 204 

III.  The  Flight 215 

V. 

SONNETS. 

First  Series. 

MIRACLES 231 

FREDERICKSBURG 232 

PURSUIT  AND  POSSESSION 233 

EGYPT 234 

EUTERPE    .                                                                                                                                     ,  237 


CONTENTS.  v 

AT  BAY  RIDGE,  LONG  ISLAND 238 

BY  THE  POTOMAC         239 

Second  Series. 

ENAMORED  ARCHITECT  OF  AIRY  RHYME 240 

THREE  FLOWERS 241 

AN  ALPINE  PICTURE 242 

TO  L.  T.  IN  FLORENCE 243 

ENGLAND    .....       244 

THE  LORELEI 247 

BARBERRIES  .       , 248 

HENHY   HOWARD  BROWNELL 249 

EVEN  THIS  WILL  PASS  AWAY 250 

AT  STRATFORD-UPON-AVON 251 

THE  RARITY  OF  GENIUS 252 

SLEEP ,  253 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PORTRAIT Engraved  on  steel  by  J.  A.  J.  Wilcox. 

PAGE 
A  TURKISH  LEGEND Marcus  Waterman.       17 

"  And  all  is  ruin  —  save  one  wrinkled  gate 
Whereon  is  written, '  Only  God  is  great.'  " 


DRESSING   THE    BRIDE F.    D.    Millet.         23 

"  So,  after  bath,  the  slave-girls  brought 
The  broidered  raiment  for  her  wear." 

WHEN  THE  SULTAN  GOES  TO  ISPAHAN     .     .   Marcus  Waterman.      32 

"  The  place  where  the  clustered  palm-trees  are, 
At  the  last  of  the  thirty  palace-gates." 

BEFORE  THE  RAIN W.  L.  Taylor.      41 

"  The  poplars  showed 
The  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber  grain 
Shrunk  in  the  wind." 

DECEMBER S.  E.  Carlsen.      47 

"  Only  the  wild  wind  moaning 
Over  the  lonely  house." 

LANDSCAPE W.  L.  Taylor.       54 

"  In  yonder  cottage  shines  a  light, 
Far-gleaming  like  a  gem." 

FABLE Marcus  Waterman.      69 

"  On  other  neighboring  branches  stood 
Other  birds  who  heard  his  song." 

MAPLE  LEAVES W.  L.  Metcalf.       77 

"October  turned  my  maple's  leaves  to  gold." 


viii  LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

MOONRISE  AT  SEA  .      ......  W.  F.  Halsall.         82 

"Up  from  the  dark  the  moon  begins  to  creep." 

SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND  ........      E.  H.  Garrett,       91 

"The  bleak  North  lets  loose  its  wailing  broods 
Of  winds  upon  us,  and  the  gray  sea  grieves 
Along  our  coast." 

SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND E.  H.  Garrett.       94 

"  In  many  a  moss-hung  wood,  the  twilight's  haunt  by  day." 

BABY  BELL .      .      .      .      W.  B.  CloSSOU.         98 

"  How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day." 

BABY  BELL W.  B.  CloSSOB.       102 

"  She  only  crossed  her  little  hands  ; 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair." 

SEA  DRIFT W.L.Metcalf.     Ill 

"  See  where  she  stands  on  the  wet  sea-sands, 
Looking  across  the  water." 

PISCATAQUA  RIVER W.  F.  Halsall.     116 

"  To  see  the  rounded  sun  go  down, 
And  with  its  parting  fires 
Light  up  the  windows  of  the  town." 

ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD  OF  MINERVA 119 

From  a  medallion  by  T.  H.  Bartlett. 

"  Minerva,  Pallas,  what  you  will  — 
A  winsome  creature,  Greek  or  Roman." 

THE  QUEEN'S  RIDE W.L.Taylor.     131 

"  Vale,  upland,  plain,  and  hill 
Wait  your  coming." 

FKIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK W.L.Metcalf.     145 

"  To  those  dim  alcoves,  far  withdrawn, 
He  turned  with  measured  steps  and  slow, 
Trimming  his  lantern  as  he  went." 

FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK W.  L.  Metcalf.     149 

"  From  break  of  dawn  till  curfew-chime 
He  bent  above  the  lengthening  page, 
Like  some  rapt  poet  o'er  his  rhyme." 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS.  ix 

MIANTOWONA F.  W.  Rogers.     160 

"  Up  from  the  centre, 
Slowly,  superbly, 
Rose  a  Pond-Lily." 

THE  LADY  OF  CASTELNORE        .......        W.  L.  Taylor.       169 

"  Her  few  walks  led  all  one  way,  and  all  ended  at  the  gray 
And  ragged,  jagged  rocks  that  fringe  the  lonely  beach." 

THE  LEGEND  or  ARA-CCELI H.  Sandham.     175 

"  Wrinkled  and  withered  and  old  and  gray, 
A  dry  Franciscan  from  crown  to  toe." 

THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI H.  Sandham.  ,187 

"  Then,  like  a  man  gone  suddenly  wild, 
He  tugged  at  the  bolts,  flung  down  the  chain." 

JUDITH W.  L.  Metcalf.     193 

"Judith  in  the  tower." 


Marcus  Waterman.    202 


"  And  there,  outside  the  city  of  her  love, 
The  warm  blood  at  her  pulses,  Judith  paused." 

JUDITH W.  L.  Metcalf.     220 

"Then  Judith  moved,  obsequious,  and  placed 
The  meats  before  him,  and  poured  out  the  wine  ; 
Holding  the  golden  goblet  while  he  ate." 

EGYPT H.  Sandham.     235 

"  A  wide-browed  Sphynx    .    .    . 
With  orbless  sockets  stares  across  the  land." 

THE  LORELEI W.  B.  Closson.     246 

"  Then  she  by  that  soft  magic  which  she  had 
Would  lure  him. 


The  engravers  are :  GEORGE  F.  ANDREW,  W.  B.  CLOSSON,  W.  J. 
DANA,  J.  P.  DAVIS,  FRANK  FRENCH,  ARTHUR  HAYMAN,  and  S.  L. 
PUTNAM. 


FLOWEB  AND   THORF. 


FLOWER  AND  THORN. 

• 

TO  L.  A. 

I. 

AT  Shiraz,  in  a  sultan's  garden,  stood 
A  tree  whereon  a  curious  apple  grew, 
One  side  like  honey,  and  one  side  like  rue. 

Thus  sweet  and  bitter  is  the  life  of  man, 
The  sultan  said,  for  thus  together  grow 
Bitter  and  sweet,  but  wherefore  none  may  know. 

Herewith  together  you  have  flower  and  thorn, 
Both  rose  and  brier,  for  thus  together  grow 
Bitter  and  sweet,  but  wherefore  none  may  know. 

n. 

Take  them  and  keep  them, 
Silvery  thorn  and  flower, 
Plucked  just  at  random 
In  the  rosy  weather  — 
Snowdrops  and  pansies, 
Sprigs  of  wayside  heather, 
And  five-leaved  wild-rose 
Dead  within  an  hour. 


14  FLOWER  AND   THORN. 

Take  them  and  keep  them  : 
Who  can  tell?    some  day,  dear, 
(Though  they  be  withered, 
Flower  and  thorn  and  blossom,) 
Held  for  an  instant 
Up  against  thy  bosom, 
They  might  make  December 
Seem  to  thee  like  May,  dear! 


I. 

CLOTH   OF  GOLD. 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 


PROEM. 

You  ask  us  if  by  rule  or  no 
Our  many-colored  songs  are  wrought 
Upon  the  cunning  loom  of  thought, 
We  weave  our  fancies,  so  and  so. 


18  CLOTH  OF   GOLD. 

The  busy  shuttle  comes  and  goes 
Across  the  rhymes,  and  deftly  weaves 
A  tissue  out  of  autumn  leaves, 
With  here  a  thistle,  there  a  rose. 

With  art  and  patience  thus  is  made 
The  poet's  perfect  Cloth  of  Gold : 
When  woven  so,  nor  moth  nor  mould 
Nor  time  can  make  its  colors  fade. 


A   TURKISH   LEGEND. 

A  CERTAIN  Pasha,  dead  these  thousand  years, 
Once  from  his  harem  fled  in  sudden  tears, 

And  had  this  sentence  on  the  city's  gate 
Deeply  engraven,  "  Only  God  is  great." 

So  those  four  words  above  the  city's  noise 
Hung  like  the  accents  of  an  angel's  voice, 

And  evermore,  from  the  high  barbacan, 
Saluted  each  returning  caravan. 

Lost  is  that  city's  glory.     Every  gust 

Lifts,  with  crisp  leaves,  the  unknown  Pasha's  dust. 

And  all  is  ruin  —  save  one  wrinkled  gate 
Whereon  is  written,  "  Only  God  is  great." 


AN   ARAB  WELCOME. 

BECAUSE  thou  com'st,  a  weary  guest, 
Unto  my  tent,  I  bid  thee  rest. 
This  cruse  of  oil,  this  skin  of  wine, 
These  tamarinds  and  dates  are  thine ; 
And  while  thou  eatest,  Medjid,  there, 
Shall  bathe  the  heated  nostrils  of  thy  mare. 

Illah  il'  Allah!     Even  so 
An  Arab  chieftain  treats  a  foe, 
Holds  him  as  one  without  a  fault 
Who  breaks  his  bread  and  tastes  his  salt; 
And,  in  fair  battle,  strikes  him  dead 
With  the  same  pleasure  that  he  gives  him  bread ! 


THE   CRESCENT   AND  THE   CROSS. 

KIND  was  my  friend  who,  in  the  Eastern  land, 
Remembered  me  with  such  a  gracious  hand, 
And  sent  this  Moorish  Crescent  which  has  been 
Worn  on  the  haughty  bosom  of  a  queen. 

No  more  it  sinks  and  rises  in  unrest 
To  the  soft  music  of  her  heathen  breast; 
No  barbarous  chief  shall  bow  before  it  more, 
No  turbaned  slave  shall  envy  and  adore. 

I  place  beside  this  relic  of  the  Sun 

A  Cross  of  Cedar  brought  from  Lebanon, 

Once  borne,  perchance,  by  some  pale  monk  who  trod 

The  desert  to  Jerusalem  —  and  his  God. 

Here  do  they  lie,  two  symbols  of  two  creeds, 
Each  meaning  something  to  our  human  needs, 
Both  stained  with  blood,  and  sacred  made  by  faith, 
By  tears,  and  prayers,  and  martyrdom,  and  death. 

That  for  the  Moslem  is,  but  this  for  me ! 
The  waning  Crescent  lacks  divinity : 
It  gives  me  dreams  of  battles,  and  the  woes 
Of  women  shut  in  dim  seraglios. 


THE    UNFORGIVEN.  21 

But  when  this  Cross  of  simple  wood  I  see, 
The  Star  of  Bethlehem  shines  again  for  me, 
And  glorious  visions  break  upon  my  gloom  — 
The  patient  Christ,  and  Mary  at  the  Tomb! 


THE   UNFORGIVEN. 

NEAR  my  bed,  there,  hangs  the  picture  jewels  could 

not  buy  from  me  : 
'T  is   a   Siren,  a  brown   Siren,   in  her  sea-weed   dra- 


Playing   on    a    lute   of    amber,  by  the    margin  of    a 
sea. 

In  the  east,  the  rose  of  morning  seems  as  if  't  would 

blossom  soon, 
But  it  never,  never  blossoms,  in  this  picture  ;  and  the 

moon 
Never  ceases  to  be  crescent,  and  the  June  is  always 

June. 

And    the    heavy-branched    banana    never    yields    its 

creamy  fruit  ; 
In  the  citron-trees  are   nightingales   forever   stricken 

mute  ; 
And  the  Siren  sits,  her  fingers  on  the  pulses  of  the 

lute. 

In  the  hushes  of  the  midnight,  when  the  heliotropes 
grow  strong 


22  CLOTH  OF   GOLD. 

With  the  dampness,  I  hear  music  —  hear  a  quiet, 
plaintive  song  — 

A  most  sad,  melodious  utterance,  as  of  some  immor 
tal  wrong  — 

Like  the  pleading,  oft  repeated,  of  a  Soul  that  pleads 

in  vain, 
Of  a  damned  Soul  repentant,  that  would  fain  be  pure 

again !  — 
And  I  lie  awake  and  listen  to  the  music  of  her  pain. 

And  whence  comes   this  mournful   music?  —  whence, 

unless  it  chance  to  be 
From  the  Siren,    the   brown    Siren,  in    her    sea-weed 

drapery, 
Playing  on  a  lute  of  amber,  by  the  margin  of  a  sea. 


DRESSING   THE   BRIDE. 


A   FRAGMENT. 


So,  after  bath,  the  slave-girls  brought 
The  broidered  raiment  for  her  wear, 
The  misty  izar  from  Mosul, 
The  pearls  and  opals  for  her  hair, 


24  CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 

The  slippers  for  her  supple  feet, 
(Two  radiant  crescent  moons  they  were,) 
And  lavender,  and  spikenard  sweet, 
And  attars,  nedd,  and  richest  musk. 
When  they  had  finished  dressing  her, 
(The  eye  of  morn,  the  heart's  desire !) 
Like  one  pale  star  against  the  dusk, 
A  single  diamond  on  her  brow 
Trembled  with  its  imprisoned  fire  ! 


TWO   SONGS   FROM   THE   PERSIAN. 

i. 

O  CEASE,  sweet  music,  let  us  rest! 
Too  soon  the  hateful  light  is  born  ; 
Henceforth  let  day  be  counted  night, 
And  midnight  called  the  morn. 

O  cease,  sweet  music,  let  us  rest ! 
A  tearful,  languid  spirit  lies, 
Like  the  dim  scent  in  violets, 
In  beauty's  gentle  eyes. 

There  is  a  sadness  in  sweet  sound 
That  quickens  tears.     O  music,  lest 
We  weep  with  thy  strange  sorrow,  cease ! 
Be  still,  and  let  us  rest. 


TWO  SONGS  FROM   THE  PERSIAN.  25 

II. 

Ah!    sad  are  they  who  know  not  love, 
But,  far  from  passion's  tears  and  smiles, 
Drift  down  a  moonless  sea,  beyond 
The  silvery  coasts  of  fairy  isles. 

And  sadder  they  whose  longing  lips 
Kiss  empty  air,  and  never  touch 
The  dear  warm  mouth  of  those  they  love  — 
Waiting,  wasting,  suffering  much. 

But  clear  as  amber,  fine  as  musk, 
Is  life  to  those  who,  pilgrim-wise, 
Move  hand  in  hand  from  dawn  to  dusk, 
Each  morning  nearer  Paradise. 

O,  not  for  them  shall  angels  pray  ! 
They  stand  in  everlasting  light, 
They  walk  in  Allah's  smile  by  day, 
And  nestle  in  his  heart  by  night. 


TIGER-LILIES. 

I  LIKE  not  lady-slippers, 

Nor  yet  the  sweet-pea  blossoms, 

Nor  yet  the  flaky  roses, 

Red,  or  white  as  snow ; 
I  like  the  chaliced  lilies, 
The  heavy  Eastern  lilies, 
The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies, 

That  in  our  garden  grow ! 

For  they  are  tall  and  slender; 

Their  mouths  are  dashed  with  carmine; 

And  when  the  wind  sweeps  by  them, 

On  their  emerald  stalks 
They  bend  so  proud  and  graceful  — 
They  are  Circassian  women, 
The  favorites  of  the  Sultan, 

Adown  our  garden  walks ! 

And  when  the  rain  is  falling, 

I  sit  beside  the  window 

And  watch  them  glow  and  glisten, 

How  they  bum  and  glow! 
O  for  the  burning  lilies, 
The  tender  Eastern  lilies, 
The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies, 

That  in  our  garden  grow! 


THE   SULTANA. 

IN  the  draperies'  purple  gloom, 

In  the  gilded  chamber  she  stands, 

I  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  bosom's  bloom, 

And  the  white  of  her  jewelled  hands. 

Each  wandering  wind  that  blows 

By  the  lattice,  seems  to  bear 

From  her  parted  lips  the  scent  of  the  rose, 

And  the  jasmine  from  her  hair. 

Her  dark-browed  odalisques  lean 

To  the  fountain's  feathery  rain, 

And  a  paroquet,  by  the  broidered  screen, 

Dangles  its  silvery  chain. 

But  pallid,  luminous,  cold, 
Like  a  phantom  she  fills  the  place, 
Sick  to  the  heart,  in  that  cage  of  gold, 
With  her  sumptuous  disgrace! 


THE   WORLD'S  WAY. 

AT  Haroun's  court  it  chanced,  upon  a  time, 
An  Arab  poet  made  this  pleasant  rhyme  : 

The  new  moon  is  a  horseshoe,  wrought  of  God, 
Wherewith  the  Sultan's  stallion  shall  be  shod." 

On  hearing  this,  his  highness  smiled,  and  gave 
The  man  a  gold-piece.     Sing  again,  O  slave  ! 

Above  his  lute  the  happy  singer  bent, 
And  turned  another  gracious  compliment. 

And,  as  before,  the  smiling  Sultan  gave 
The  man  a  sekkah.      Sing  again,  O  slave  ! 

Again  the  verse  came,  fluent  as  a  rill 
That  wanders,  silver-footed,  down  a  hill. 

The  Sultan,  listening,  nodded  as  before, 

Still  gave  the  gold,  and  still  demanded  more. 

The  nimble  fancy  that  had  climbed  so  high 
Grew  weary  with  its  climbing  by  and  by: 


L  ATARI A.  29 

Strange  discords  rose ;  the  sense  went  quite  amiss ; 
The  singer's  rhymes  refused  to  meet  and  kiss : 

Invention  flagged,  the  lute  had  got  unstrung, 
And  twice  he  sang  the  song  already  sung. 

The  Sultan,  furious,  called  a  mute,  and  said, 
O  Musta,  straightway  whip  me  off  his  head! 

Poets !  not  in  Arabia  alone 

You  get  beheaded  when  your  skill  is  gone. 


LATAKIA. 

I. 

WHEN  all  the  panes  are  hung  with  frost, 

Wild  wizard-work  of  silver  lace, 

I  draw  my  sofa  on  the  rug 

Before  the  ancient  chimney-place. 

Upon  the  painted  tiles  are  mosques 

And  minarets,  and  here  and  there 

A  blind  muezzin  lifts  his  hands 

And  calls  the  faithful  unto  prayer. 

Folded  in  idle,  twilight  dreams, 

I  hear  the  hemlock  chirp  and  sing 

As  if  within  its  ruddy  core 

It  held  the  happy  heart  of  Spring. 

Ferdousi  never  sang  like  that, 

Nor  Saadi  grave,  nor  Hafiz  gay : 


30  CLOTH  OF   GOLD. 

I  lounge,  and  blow  white  rings  of  smoke, 
And  watch  them  rise  and  float  away. 

ii. 

The  curling  wreaths  like  turbans  seem 
Of  silent  slaves  that  come  and  go  — 
Or  Viziers,  packed  with  craft  and  crime, 
Whom  I  behead  from  time  to  time, 
With  pipe-stem,  at  a  single  blow. 

And  now  and  then  a  lingering  cloud 
Takes  gracious  form  at  my  desire, 
And  at  my  side  my  lady  stands, 
Unwinds  her  veil  with  snowy  hands  — 
A  shadowy  shape,  a  breath  of  fire ! 

O  Love,  if  you  were  only  here 
Beside  me  in  this  mellow  light, 

O 

Though  all  the  bitter  winds  should  blow, 
And  all  the  ways  be  choked  with  snow, 
9T  woidd  be  a  true  Arabian  night ! 


WHEN   THE   SULTAN   GOES   TO  ISPAHAN. 

WHEN  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Goes  to  the  city  Ispahan, 
Even  before  he  gets  so  far 

As  the  place  where  the  clustered  palm-trees  are, 
At  the  last  of  the  thirty  palace-gates, 
The  flower  of  the  harem,  Rose-in-Bloom, 
Orders  a  feast  in  his  favorite  room  — 
Glittering  squares  of  colored  ice, 
Sweetened  with  syrop,  tinctured  with  spice, 
Creams,  and  cordials,  and  sugared  dates, 
Syrian  apples,  Othmanee  quinces, 
Limes,  and  citrons,  and  apricots, 
And  wines  that  are  known  to  Eastern  princes  ; 
And  Nubian  slaves,  with  smoking  pots 
Of  spiced  meats  and  costliest  fish 
And  all  that  the  curious  palate  could  wish, 
Pass  in  and  out  of  the  cedarn  doors  ; 
Scattered  over  mosaic  floors 
Are  anemones,  myrtles,  and  violets, 
And  a  musical  fountain  throws  its  jets 
Of  a  hundred  colors  into  the  air. 
The  dusk  Sultana  loosens  her  hair, 
And  stains  with  the  henna-plant  the  tips 
Of  her  pointed  nails,  and  bites  her  lips 


34  CLOTH  OF   GOLD. 

Till  they  bloom  again;  but,  alas,  that  rose 
Not  for  the  Sultan  buds  and  blows  ! 
Not  for  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
When  he  goes  to  the  city  Ispahan. 

Then  at  a  wave  of   her  sunny  hand 
The  dancing-girls  of  Samarcand 
Glide  in  like  shapes  from  fairy-land, 
Making  a  sudden  mist  in  air 
Of  fleecy  veils  and  floating  hair 
And  white  arms  lifted.     Orient  blood 
Runs  in  their  veins,  shines  in  their  eyes. 
And  there,  in  this  Eastern  Paradise, 
Filled  with  the  breath  of  sandal-wood, 
And  Khoten  musk,  and  aloes  and  myrrh, 
Sits  Rose-in-Bloom  on  a  silk  divan, 
Sipping  the  wines  of  Astrakhan  ; 
And  her  Arab  lover  sits  with  her. 
That  9s  when  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Goes  to  the  city  Ispahan. 

Now,  when  I  see  an  extra  light, 
Flaming,  flickering  on  the  night 
From  my  neighbor's  casement  opposite, 
I  know  as  well  as  I  know  to  pray, 
I  know  as  well  as  a  tongue  can  say, 
That  the  innocent  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Has  gone  to  the  city  Ispahan. 


HASCHEESH. 

I. 

STRICKEN    with    dreams,    I    wandered    through   the 

night  ; 

The  heavens  leaned  down  to  me  with  splendid  fires ; 
The  south-wind  breathing  upon  unseen  lyres 
Made  music  as  I  went ;  and  to  my  sight 
A  Palace  shaped  itself  against  the  skies  : 
Great  sapphire-studded  portals  suddenly 
Opened  on  vast  Ionic  galleries 
Of  gold  and  porphyry,  and  I  could  see, 
Through  half-drawn  curtains  that  let  in  the  day, 
Dim  tropic  gardens  stretching  far  away. 

n. 

Ah !  what  a  wonder  fell  upon  my  soul, 
When  from  that  structure  of  the  upper  airs 
I  saw  unfold  a  flight  of  crystal  stairs 
For  my  ascending.  .  .  .  Then  I  heard  the  roll 
Of  unseen  oceans  clashing  at  the  Pole.  .  .  . 
A  terror  seized  upon  me  ...  a  vague  sense 
Of  near  calamity.     "  O,  lead  me  hence  !  " 
I  shrieked,  and  lo  !    from  out  a  darkling  hole 
That   opened  at  my  feet,  crawled  after  me, 
Up  the  broad  staircase,  creatures  of  huge  size, 


CLOTH  OF   GOLD. 


Fanged,  warty  monsters,  with  their  lips  and  eyes 
Hung  with  slim  leeches  sucking  hungrily.  - 
Away,  vile  drug  !    I  will  avoid  thy  spell, 
Honey  of  Paradise,  black  dew  of  Hell  ! 


,  A   PRELUDE. 

HASSAN  BEN  ABDUL  at  the  Ivory  Gate 

Of  Bagdad  sat  and  chattered  in  the  sun, 

Like  any  magpie  chattered  to  himself 

And  four  lank,  swarthy  Arab  boys  that  stopt 

A  gambling  game  with  peach-pits,  and  drew  near. 

Then  Iman  Khan,  the  friend  of  thirsty  souls, 

The  seller  of   pure  water,  ceased  his  cry, 

And  placed  his  water-skins  against  the  gate  — 

They  looked  so  like  him,  with  their  sallow  cheeks 

Puffed  out  like  Iman's.     Then  a  eunuch  came 

And  swung  a  pack  of  sweetmeats  from  his  head, 

And  stood  —  a  hideous  pagan  cut  in  jet. 

And  then  a  Jew,  whose  sandal-straps  were  red 

With  desert-dust,  limped,  cringing,  to  the  crowd  — 

He,  too,  would  listen  ;  and  close  after  him 

A  jeweller  that  glittered  like  his  shop. 

Then  two  blind  mendicants,  who  wished  to  go 

Six  diverse  ways  at  once,    came  stumbling  by, 

But  hearing  Hassan  chatter,  sat  them  down. 

And  if  the  Khaleef  had  been  riding  near, 

He  would  have  paused  to  listen  like  the  rest, 

For  Hassan's  fame  was  ripe  in  all  the  East. 

From  white-walled  Cairo  to  far  Ispahan, 


A  PRELUDE.  87 

From  Mecca  to  Damascus,  he  was  known, 
Hassan,  the  Arab  with  the  Singing  Heart. 
His  songs  were  sung  by  boatmen  on  the  Nile, 
By  Beddowee  maidens,  and  in  Tartar  camps, 
While  all  men  loved  him  as  they  loved  their  eyes  ; 
And  when  he  spake,  the  wisest,  next  to  him, 
Was  he  who  listened.     And  thus  Hassan  sung. 
—  And  I,  a  stranger,  lingering  in  Bagdad, 
Half  English  and  half  Arab,  by  my  beard  ! 
Caught  at  the  gilded  epic  as  it  grew, 
And  for  my  Christian  brothers  wrote  it  down. 


II. 

INTEKLTJDES. 


INTERLUDES. 


BEFORE   THE   RAIN. 


WE  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn 
A  spirit  on  slender  ropes  of  mist 

Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 
Into  the  vapory  amethyst 


42  INTERLUDES. 

Of  marshes  and  swamps  and  dismal  fens  — 
Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in  the  flowers, 

Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea, 

To  sprinkle  them  over  the  land  in  showers. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the  poplars  showed 
The  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber  grain 

Shrunk  in  the  wind  —  and  the  lightning  now 
Is  tangled  in  tremulous  skeins  of  rain ! 


AFTER  THE   RAIN. 

THE  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunshine  pours  an  airy  flood ; 
And  on  the  church's  dizzy  vane 
The  ancient  Cross  is  bathed  in  blood. 

From  out  the  dripping  ivy-leaves, 
Antiquely  carven,  gray  and  high, 
A  dormer,  facing  westward,  looks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye : 

And  now  it  glimmers  in  the  sun, 
A  square  of  gold,  a  disk,  a  speck : 
And  in  the  belfry  sits  a  Dove 
With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 


HESPERIDES. 

IF  thy  soul,  Herrick,  dwelt  with  me, 
This  is  what  my  songs  would  be : 
Hints  of  our  sea-breezes,  blent 
With  odors  from  the  Orient ; 
Indian  vessels  deep  with  spice ; 
Star-showers  from  the  Norland  ice ; 
Wine-red  jewels  that  seem  to  hold 
Fire,  but  only  burn  with  cold ; 
Antique  goblets,  strangely  wrought, 
Filled  with  the  wine  of  happy  thought; 
Bridal  measures,  vain  regrets, 
Laburnum  buds  and  violets ; 
Hopeful  as  the  break  of  day ; 
Clear  as  crystal ;  new  as  May ; 
Musical  as  brooks  that  run 
O'er  yellow  shallows  in  the  sun; 
Soft  as  the  satin  fringe  that  shades 
The  eyelids  of  thy  fragrant  maids; 
Brief  as  thy  lyrics,  Herrick,  are, 
And  polished  as  the  bosom  of  a  star. 


CASTLES. 

THERE  is  a  picture  in  my  brain 
That  only  fades  to  come  again  — 
The  sunlight,  through  a  veil  of  rain 

To  leeward,  gilding 
A  narrow  stretch  of  brown  sea-sand, 
A  lighthouse  half  a  league  from  land, 
And  two  young  lovers,  hand  in  hand, 

A  castle-building. 

Upon  the  budded  apple-trees 

The  robins  sing  by  twos  and  threes, 

And  ever,  at  the  faintest  breeze, 

Down  drops  a  blossom; 
And  ever  would  that  lover  be 
The  wind  that  robs  the  burgeoned  tree, 
And  lifts  the  soft  tress  daintily 

On  Beauty's  bosom. 

Ah,  graybeard,  what  a  happy  thing 
It  was,  when  life  was  in  its  spring, 
To  peep  through  love's  betrothal  ring 

At  fields  Elysian, 

To  move  and  breathe  in  magic  air, 
To  think  that  all  that  seems  is  fair  — 
Ah,  ripe  young  mouth  and  golden  hair,, 

Thou  pretty  vision! 


INGRATITUDE.  45 

Well,  well,  I  think  not  on  these  two 
But  the  old  wound  breaks  out  anew, 
And  the  old  dream,  as  if  'twere  true, 

In  my  heart  nestles  ; 
Then  tears  come  welling  to  my  eyes, 
For  yonder,  all  in  saintly  guise, 
As  'twere,  a  sweet  dead  woman  lies 

Upon  the  trestles. 


INGRATITUDE. 

FOUR  bluish  eggs  all  in  the  moss ! 

Soft-lined  home  on  the  cherry-bough ! 
Life  is  trouble,  and  love  is  loss  - 

There 's  only  one  robin  now. 

O  robin  up  in  the  cherry-tree, 

Singing  your  soul  away, 
Great  is  the  grief  befallen  me, 

And  how  can  you  be  so  gay? 

Long  ago  when  you  cried  in  the  nest, 

The  last  of  the  sickly  brood, 
Scarcely  a  pinfeather  warming  your  breast, 

Who  was  it  brought  you  food? 

Who  said,  "Music,  come  fill  his  throat, 

Or  ever  the  May  be  fled  "  ? 
Who  was  it  loved  the  low  sweet  note 

And  the  bosom's  sea-shell  red  ? 


46  INTERLUDES. 

Who  said,  "Cherries,  grow  ripe  and  big, 
Black  and  ripe  for  this  bird  of  mine"? 

How  little  bright-bosom  bends  the  twig, 
Sipping  the  black-heart's  wine ! 

Now  that  my  days  and  nights  are  woe, 
Now  that  I  weep  for  love's  dear  sake  — 

There  you  go  singing  away  as  though 
Never  a  heart  could  break! 


DECEMBER. 

ONLY  the  sea  intoning, 
Only  the  wainscot-mouse, 
Only  the  wild  wind  moaning 
Over  the  lonely  house. 

Darkest  of  all  Decembers 
Ever  my  life  has  known, 
Sitting  here  by  the  embers, 
Stunned  and  helpless,  alone  — 

Dreaming  of  two  graves  lying 
Out  in  the  damp  and  chill: 
One  where  the  buzzard,  flying, 
Pauses  at  Malvern  Hill ; 

The  other  —  alas!  the  pillows 
Of  that  uneasy  bed 
Rise  and  fall  with  the  billows 
Over  our  sailor's  head. 


DECEMBER. 

Theirs  the  heroic  story  — 
Died,  by  frigate  and  town ! 
Theirs  the  Calm  and  the  Glory, 
Theirs  the  Cross  and  the  Crown. 

Mine  to  linger   and  languish 
Here  by  the  wintry  sea. 
Ah,  faint  heart!    in  thy  anguish, 
What  is  there  left  to  thee? 

Only  the  sea  intoning, 
Only  the  wainscot-mouse, 
Only  the  wild  wind  moaning 
Over  the  lonely  house. 


47 


THE   FADED   VIOLET. 

WHAT  thought  is  folded  in  thy  leaves! 
What  tender  thought,  what  speechless  pain ! 
I  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine, 
Thou  darling  of  the  April  rain ! 

I  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine, 
Though  scent  and  azure  tint  are  fled  — 

0  dry,  mute  lips!    ye  are  the  type 
Of  something  in  me  cold  and  dead: 

Of  something  wilted  like  thy  leaves ; 
Of  fragrance  flown,  of  beauty  dim ; 
Yet,  for  the  love  of  those  white  hands 
That  found  thee  by  a  river's  brim  — 

That  found  thee  when  thy  dewy  mouth 
Was  purpled  as  with  stains  of  wine  — 
For  love  of  her  who  love  forgot, 

1  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine. 

That  thou  shouldst  live  when  I  am  dead, 
When  hate  is  dead,  for  me,  and  wrong, 
For  this,  I  use  my  subtlest  art, 
For  this,  I  fold  thee  in  my  song. 


AMONTILLADO. 

VINTAGE,     1826. 

RAFTEKS  black  with  smoke, 
White  with  sand  the  floor  is, 
Twenty  whiskered  Dons 
Calling  to  Dolores  — 
Tawny  flower  of  Spain, 
Wild-rose  of  Granada, 
Keeper  of  the  wines 
In  this  old  posada. 

Hither,  light-of-foot, 
Dolores,  Hebe,  Circe  !  — 
Pretty  Spanish  girl, 
With  not  a  bit  of  mercy  ! 
Here  I  'm  sad  and  sick, 
Faint  and  thirsty  very, 
And  she  does  not  bring 
The  Amontillado  Sherry! 

Thank  you.     Breath  of  June ! 
Now  my  heart  beats  free,  ah! 
Kisses  for  your  hand, 
Amigita  mia! 


50  INTERLUDES. 

You  shall  live  in  song, 
Ripe  and  warm  and  cheery, 
Mellowing'  with  years, 
Like  Amontillado  Sherry. 

Evil  spirits,  fly! 

Care,  begone,  blue  dragon! 

Only  shapes  of  joy 

Are  sculptured  on  the  flagon: 

Lyrics  —  repartees  — 

Kisses  —  all  that  's  merry 

Rise  to  touch  the  lip 

In  Amontillado  Sherry ! 

Here  be  worth  and  wealth, 
And  love,  the  arch  enchanter; 
Here  the  golden  blood 
Of  saints,  in  this  decanter ! 
When  old  Charon  comes 
To  row  me  o'er  his  ferry, 
I  '11  bribe  him  with  a  case 
Of  Amontillado  Sherry ! 

While  the  earth  spins  round 
And  the  stars  lean  over, 
May  this  amber  sprite 
Never  lack  a  lover. 
Blesse'd  be  the  man 
Who  lured  her  from   the  berry, 
And  blest  the  girl  who  brings 
The  Amontillado  Sherry ! 


THE  LUNCH.  51 

What !    the  flagon  's  dry  ? 
Hark,  old  Time's  confession  — 
Both  hands  crost  at  XII., 
Owning  his  transgression  ! 
Pray,  old  monk  !    for  all 
Generous  souls  and  merry, 
May  they  have  their  fill 
Of  Amontillado  Sherry ! 


THE   LUNCH. 

A  GOTHIC  window,  where  a  damask  curtain 
Made  the  blank  daylight  shadowy  and  uncertain  i 
A  slab  of   agate  on  four  eagle-talons 
Held  trimly  up  and  neatly  taught  to  balance  : 
A  porcelain  dish,  o'er  which  in  many  a  cluster 
Black    grapes    hung    down,    dead-ripe    and    without 

lustre  : 

A  melon  cut  in  thin,  delicious  slices  : 
A  cake  that  seemed  mosaic-work  in  spices  : 
Two  China  cups  with  golden  tulips  sunny, 
And  rich  inside  with .  chocolate  like  honey  : 
And  she  and  I  the  banquet-scene  completing 
With  dreamy  words  —  and  very  pleasant  eating  ! 


THE   ONE  WHITE   ROSE. 

A  SORROWFUL  woman  said  to  me, 
"  Come  in  and  look  on  our  child." 
I  saw  an  Angel  at  shut  of  day, 
And  it  never  spoke  —  but  smiled. 

I  think  of  it  in  the  city's  streets, 
I  dream  of   it  when  I  rest  — 
The  violet  eyes,  the  waxen  hands, 
And  the  one  white  rose  on  the  breast! 


NAMELESS   PAIN. 

IN  my  nostrils  the  summer  wind 
Blows  the  exquisite  scent  of  the  rose  : 
O  for  the  golden,  golden  wind, 
Breaking  the  buds  as  it  goes  ! 
Breaking  the  buds  and  bending  the  grass, 
And  spilling  the  scent  of  the  rose. 

0  wind  of  the  summer  morn, 
Tearing  the  petals  in  twain, 
Wafting  the  fragrant  soul 

Of  the  rose  through  valley  and  plain, 

1  would  you  could  tear  my  heart  to-day 
And  scatter  its  nameless  pain ! 


I 


LANDSCAPE. 

TWILIGHT. 

GAUNT  shadows  stretch  along  the  hill ; 
Cold  clouds  drift  slowly  west; 
Soft  flocks  of  vagrant  snow-flakes  fill 
The  redwing's  empty  nest. 

By  sunken  reefs  the  hoarse  sea  roars ; 
Above  the  shelving  sands, 
Like  skeletons  the  sycamores 
Uplift  their  wasted  hands. 

The  air  is  full  of  hints  of  grief, 
Strange  voices  touched  with  pain  — 
The  pathos  of  the  falling  leaf 
And  rustling  of  the  rain. 

In  yonder  cottage  shines  a  light, 
Far-gleaming  like  a  gem  — 
Not  fairer  to  the  Rabbins'  sight 
Was  star  of  Bethlehem  ! 


AT   TWO-AND-TWENTY. 

MARIAN,  May,  and  Maud 

Have  not  past  me  by  — 
Arched  foot,  and  rosy  mouth, 

And  bronze-brown  eye  ! 

When  my  hair  is  gray, 

Then  I  shall  be  wise ; 
Then,  thank  Heaven  !     I  shall  not  care 

For  bronze-brown  eyes. 

Then  let  Maud  and  May 

And  Marian  pass  me  by  : 
So  they  do  not  scorn  me  now, 

What  care  I? 


GLAMOURIE, 

UNDER  the  night, 

In  the  white  moonshine, 
Sit  thou  with  me, 
By  the  graveyard  tree, 
Imogene. 

The  fire-flies  swarm 

In  the  white  moonshine, 
Each  with  its  light 
For  our  bridal  night, 
Imogene. 

Blushing  with  love, 

In  the  white  moonshine, 
Lie  in  my  arms, 
So,  safe  from  alarms, 
Imogene. 

Paler  art  thou 

Than  the  white  moonshine. 
Ho !  thou  art  lost  — 
Thou  lovest  a  Ghost, 
Imogene ! 


PALABRAS   CARINOSAS. 

(SPANISH  AIR.) 

GOOD-NIGHT!  I  have  to  say  good-night 
To  such  a  host  of  peerless  things ! 
Good-night  unto  that  fragile  hand 
All  queenly  with  its  weight  of  rings; 
Good-night  to  fond,  uplifted  eyes, 
Good-night  to  chestnut  braids  of  hair, 
Good-night  unto  the  perfect  mouth, 
And  all  the  sweetness  nestled  there  — 
The  snowy  hand  detains  me,  then 
I  '11  have  to  say  Good-night  again ! 

But  there  will  come  a  time,  my  love, 

When,  if  I  read  our  stars  aright, 

I  shall  not  linger  by  this  porch 

With  my  adieus.     Till  then,  good-night ! 

You  wish  the  time  were  now  ?     And  I. 

You  do  not  blush  to  wish  it  so  ? 

You  would  have  blushed  yourself  to  death 

To  own  so  much  a  year  ago  — 

What,  both  these  snowy  hands!  ah,  then 
I  '11  have  to  say  Good-night  again ! 


MAY. 

HEBE  's  here,  May  is  here ! 
The  air  is  fresh  and  sunny ; 
And  the  miser-bees  are  busy 
Hoarding  golden  honey. 

See  the  knots  of  buttercups, 
And  the  purple  pansies  — 
Thick  as  these,  within  my  brain, 
Grow  the  wildest  fancies. 

Let  me  write  my  songs  to-day. 
Rhymes  with  dulcet  closes  — 
Four-line  epics  one  might  hide 
In  the  hearts  of  roses. 


THE   BLUEBELLS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

THE  roses  are  a  regal  troop. 
And  modest  folk  the  daisies  ; 
But,  Bluebells  of  New  England, 
To  you  I  give  my  praises  — 

To  you,  fair  phantoms  in  the  sun, 
Whom  merry  Spring  discovers, 
With  bluebirds  for  your  laureates, 
And  honey-bees  for  lovers. 

The  south-wind  breathes,  and  lo  !    you  throng 
This  rugged  land  of  ours: 
I  think  the  pale  blue  clouds  of  May 
Drop  down,  and  turn  to  flowers  ! 

By  cottage  doors  along  the  roads 
You  show  your  winsome  faces, 
And,  like  the  spectre  lady,  haunt 
The  lonely  woodland  places. 

All  night  your  eyes  are  closed  in  sleep, 
Kept  fresh  for  day's  adorning : 
Such  simple  faith  as  yours  can   see 
God's  coming  in  the  morning! 


WEDDED.  61 

You  lead  me  by  your  holiness 
To  pleasant  ways  of  duty  ; 
You  set  my  thoughts  to  melody, 
You  fill  me  with  your  beauty. 

Long  may  the  heavens  give  you  rain, 
The  sunshine  its  caresses, 
Long  may  the  woman  that  I   love 
Entwine  you  in  her  tresses  ! 


WEDDED. 

(PROVEXgAL    AIR.) 

THE  happy  bells  shall  ring, 

Marguerite ; 
The  summer  birds  shall  sing, 

Marguerite  — 

You  smile,  but  you  shall  wear 
Orange-blossoms  in  your  hair, 

Marguerite. 

Ah  me !  the  bells  have  rung, 

Marguerite ; 
The  summer  birds  have  sung, 

Marguerite  — 
But  cypress  leaf  and  rue 
Make  a  sorry  wreath  for  you, 

Marguerite. 


ROMANCE. 

I. 

I  HAVE  placed  a  golden 
Ring  upon  the  hand 
Of  the  blithest  little 
Lady  in  the  land! 

When  the  early  roses 
Scent  the  sunny  air, 
She  shall  gather  white  ones 
To  tremble  in  her  hair! 

Hasten,  happy  roses, 
Come  to  me  by  May  — 
In  your  folded  petals 
Lies  my  wedding-day. 

n. 

The  chestnuts  shine  through  the  cloven  rind, 

And  the  woodland  leaves  are  red,  my  dear ; 
The  scarlet  fuchsias  burn  in  the  wind  — 
Funeral  plumes  for  the  Year! 

The  Year  which  has  brought  me  so  much  woe 
That  if  it  were  not  for  you,  my  dear, 


DESTINY,  63 

I  could  wish  the  fuchsias'  fire  might  glow 
For  me  as  well  as  the  Year. 


in. 

Out  from  the  depths  of  my  heart 
Had  arisen  this  single  cry, 
Let  me  behold  my  beloved, 
Let  me  behold  her,  and  die. 

At  last,  like  a  sinful  soul 
At  the  portals  of  Heaven  I  lie, 
Never  to  walk  with  the  blest, 
Ah,  never!  .  .  .  only  to  die. 


DESTINY. 

THREE  roses,  wan  as  moonlight  and  weighed  down 
Each  with  its  loveliness  as  with  a  crown, 
Drooped  in  a  florist's  window  in  a  town. 

The  first  a  lover  bought.     It  lay  at  rest, 

Like  flower  on  flower,  that  night,  on  Beauty's  breast. 

The  second  rose,  as  virginal  and  fair, 
Shrunk  in  the  tangles  of  a  harlot's  hair. 

The  third,  a  widow,  with  new  grief  made  wild, 
Shut  in  the  icy  palrn  of  her  dead  child. 


UNSUNG. 

As  sweet  as  the  breath  that  goes 
From  the  lips  of  the  white  rose, 
As  weird  as  the  elfin  lights 
That  glimmer  of  frosty  nights, 
As  wild  as  the  winds  that  tear 
The  curled  red  leaf  in  the  air, 
Is  the  song  I  have  never  sung. 

In  slumber,  a  hundred  times 

I  have  said  the  mystic  rhymes, 

But  ere  I  open  my  eyes 

This  ghost  of  a  poem  flies  ; 

Of  the  interfluent  strains 

Not  even  a  note  remains: 

I  know  by  my  pulses'  beat 

It  was  something  wild  and  sweet, 

And  my  heart  is  strangely  stirred 

By  an  unremembered  word ! 

I  strive,  but  I  strive  in  vain, 
To  recall  the  lost  refrain. 
On  some  miraculous  day 
Perhaps  it  will  come  and  stay ; 
In  some  unimagined  Spring 
I  may  find  my  voice,  and  sing 
The  song  I  have  never  sung. 


FROST-WORK. 

THESE  winter  nights,  against  my  window-pane 

Nature  with  busy  pencil  draws  designs 

Of  ferns  and  blossoms  and  fine  spray  of  pines, 

Oak-leaf  and  acorn  and  fantastic  vines, 

Which  she  will  make  when  summer  comes  again 

Quaint  arabesques  in  argent,  flat  and  cold, 

Like  curious  Chinese  etchings.  .  .  .  By  and  by, 

Walking  my  leafy  garden  as  of  old, 

These  frosty  fantasies  shall  charm  my  eye 

In  azure,  damask,  emerald,  and  gold. 


ROCOCO. 

BY  studying  my  lady's  eyes 

I've  grown  so  learned  day  by  day, 

So  Machiavelian  in  this  wise, 

That  when  I  send  her  flowers,  I  say 

To  each  small  flower  (no  matter  what, 
Geranium,  pink,  or  tuberose, 
Syringa,  or  forget-me-not, 
Or  violet)  before  it  goes  : 

"Be  not  triumphant,  little  flower, 
When  on  her  haughty  heart  you  lie, 
But  modestly  enjoy  your  hour: 
She'll  weary  of  you  by  and  by." 


HAUNTED. 

A  NOISOME  mildewed  vine 

Crawls  to  the  rotting  eaves  ; 

The  gate  has  dropped  from  the  rusty  hinge, 

And  the  walks  are  stamped  with  leaves. 

Close  by  the  shattered  fence 

The  red-clay  road  runs  by 

To  a  haunted  wood,  where  the  hemlocks  groan 

And  the  willows  sob  and  sigh. 

Among  the  dank  lush  flowers 

The  spiteful  fire-fly  glows, 

And  a  woman  steals  by  the  stagnant  pond 

Wrapt  in  her  burial  clothes. 

There's  a  dark  blue  scar  on  her  throat, 
And  ever  she  makes  a  moan, 
And  the  humid  lizards  gleam  in  the  grass, 
And  the  lichens  weep  on  the  stone; 

And  the  Moon  shrinks  in  a  cloud, 
And  the  traveller  shakes  with  fear, 
And  an  Owl  on  the  skirts  of  the  wood 
Hoots,  and  says,  Do  you  hear  ? 


68  INTERLUDES. 

Go  not  there  at  night, 

For  a  spell  hangs  over  all  — 

The  palsied  elms,  and  the  dismal  road, 

And  the  broken  garden-wall. 

O,  go  not  there  at  night, 
For  a  curse  is  on  the  place ; 
Go  not  there,  for  fear  you  meet 
The  Murdered  face  to  face ! 


FABLE. 

ROME,    1875. 

A  CERTAIN  bird  in  a  certain  wood, 

Feeling  the  spring-time  warm  and  good, 

Sang  to  it,  in  melodious  mood. 

On  other  neighboring  branches  stood 

Other  birds  who  heard  his  song  : 

Loudly  he  sang,  and  clear  and  strong ; 

Sweetly  he  sang,  and  it  stirred  their  gall 

There  should  be  a  voice  so  musical. 

They  said  to  themselves  :    "  We  must  stop  that 

bird, 

He  's  the  sweetest  voice  was  ever  heard. 
That  rich,  deep  chest-note,  crystal-clear, 
Is  a  mortifying  thing  to  hear. 
We  have  sharper  beaks  and  hardier  wings, 
Yet  we  but  croak :    this  fellow  sings  !  " 


IDENTITY.  71 

So  they  planned  and  planned,  and  killed  the  bird 
With  the  sweetest  voice  was  ever  heard. 

Passing  his  grave  one  happy  May, 
I  brought  this  English  daisy  away. 


A   SNOW-FLAKE. 

ONCE  he  sang  of  summer, 
Nothing  but  the  summer  ; 
Now  he  sings  of  winter, 
Of  winter  bleak  and  drear  : 
Just  because  there  's  fallen 
A  snow-flake  on  his  forehead, 
He  must  go  and  fancy 
'T  is  winter  all  the  year ! 


IDENTITY. 

SOMEWHERE  —  in  desolate  wind-swept  space 

In  Twilight-land  —  in  No-man's-land  — 
Two  hurrying  Shapes  met  face  to  face, 
And  bade  each  other  stand. 

"And  who  are  you?"    cried  one,  agape, 

Shuddering  in  the  gloaming  light. 
"  I  know  not,"  said  the  second  Shape, 
"  I  only  died  last  night !  " 


ACROSS   THE   STREET. 

WITH  lash  on  cheek,  she  comes  and  goes ; 
I  watch  her  when  she  little  knows  : 

I  wonder  if  she  dreams  of  it. 
Sitting  and  working  at  my  rhymes, 
I  weave  into  my  verse  at  times 

Her  sunny  hair,  or  gleams  of  it. 

Upon  her  window-ledge  is  set 
A  box  of  flowering  mignonette ; 

Morning  and  eve  she  tends  to  them  — 
The  senseless  flowers,  that  do  not  care 
About  that  loosened  strand  of  hair, 

As  prettily  she  bends  to  them. 

If  I  could  once  contrive  to  get 
Into  that  box  of  mignonette 

Some  morning  when  she  tends  to  them  — 
She  comes!     I  see  the  rich  blood  rise 
From  throat  to  cheek !  —  down  go  the  eyes, 

Demurely,  as  she  bends  to  them  ! 


NOCTURNE. 

BELLAGGIO. 

UP  to  her  chamber  window 
A  slight  wire  trellis  goes, 
And  up  this  Romeo's  ladder 
Clambers  a  bold  white  rose. 

I  lounge  in  the  ilex  shadows, 
I  see  the  lady  lean, 
Unclasping  her  silken  girdle, 
The  curtain's  folds  between. 

She  smiles  on  her  white-rose  lover, 
She  reaches  out  her  hand 
And  helps  him  in  at  the  window  — 
I  see  it  where  I  stand! 

To  her  scarlet  lip  she  holds  him, 
And  kisses  him  many  a  time  — 
Ah,  me  !    it  was  he  that  won  her 
Because  he  dared  to  climb ! 


AN  UNTIMELY  THOUGHT. 

I  WONDER  what  day  of   the  week  — 
I  wonder  what  month  of  the  year  — 
Will  it  be  midnight,  or  morning, 
And  who  will  bend  over  my  bier? 

—  What  a  hideous  fancy  to  come 
As  I  wait,  at  the  foot  of  the  stair, 
While  Lilian  gives  the  last  touch 
To  her  robe,  or  the  rose  in  her  hair. 

Do  I  like  your  new  dress  —  pompadour  ? 
And  do  I  like  you  ?     On  my  life, 
You  are  eighteen,  and  not  a  day  more, 
And  have  not  been  six  years  my  wife. 

Those  two  rosy  boys  in  the  crib 
Up-stairs  are  not  ours,  to  be  sure  !  - 
Y^ou  are  just  a  sweet  bride  in  her  bloom, 
All  sunshine,  and  snowy,  and  pure. 

As  the  carriage  rolls  down  the  dark  street 
The  little  wife  laughs  and  makes  cheer  - 
But  ...  I  wonder  what  day  of  the  week, 
I  wonder  what  month  of  the  year. 


RENCONTRE. 

TOILING  across  the  Mer  de  Glace, 
I  thought  of,  longed  for  thee ; 
What  miles  between  us  stretched,  alas ! 
What  miles  of  land  and  sea  ! 

My  foe,  undreamed  of,  at  my  side 
Stood  suddenly,  like  Fate. 
For  those  who  love,  the  world  is  wide, 
But  not  for  those  who  hate. 


LOVE'S   CALENDAR. 

THE  Summer  comes  and  the  Summer  goes ; 
Wild-flowers  are  fringing  the  dusty  lanes, 
The  swallows  go  darting  through  fragrant  rains, 

Then,  all  of  a  sudden  —  it  snows. 

Dear  Heart,  our  lives  so  happily  flow, 
So  lightly  \ve  heed  the  flying  hours, 
We  only  know  Winter  is  gone  —  by  the  flowers, 

We  only  know  Winter  is  come  —  by  the  snow. 


A  WINTER-PIECE. 

Sous  le  voile  qui  vous  protege, 
Defiant  les  regards  jaloux, 
Si  vous  sortez  par  cette  neige, 
Redoutez  vos  pieds  andalous. 

TH^OPHILE  GAUTIER. 

BENEATH  the  heavy  veil  you  wear, 
Shielded  from  jealous  eyes  you  go; 
But  of  your  pretty  feet  have  care 
If  you  should  venture  through  the  snow. 

Howe'er  you  tread,  a  dainty  mould 
Betrays  that  light  foot  all  the  same  ; 
Upon  this  glistening,  snowy  fold 
At  every  step  it  signs  your  name. 

Thus  guided,  one  might  come  too  close 
Upon  the  slyly-hidden  nest 
Where  Psyche,  with  her  cheek's  cold  rose, 
On  Love's  warm  bosom  lies  at  rest. 


QUATRAINS. 
1. 

DAY  AND  NIGHT. 

DAY  is  a  snow-white  Dove  of  heaven 
That  from  the  East  glad  message  brings : 
Night  is  a  stealthy,  evil  Raven, 
Wrapped  to  the  eyes  in  his  black  wings. 

2. 
MAPLE  LEAVES. 

OCTOBER  turned  my  maple's  leaves  to  gold; 
The  most  are  gone  now ;  here  and  there  one  lingers : 
Soon  these  will  slip  from  out  the  twigs'  weak  hold, 
Like  coins  between  a  dying  miser's  fingers. 


78  INTERLUDES, 

3. 

\ 

A  CHILD'S   GRAVE. 

A  LITTLE  mound  with  chipped  headstone, 
The  grass,  ah  me!  uncut  about  the  sward, 

Summer  by  summer  left  alone 
With  one  white  lily  keeping  watch  and  ward. 

4. 

PESSIMIST  AND   OPTIMIST. 

THIS  one  sits  shivering  in  Fortune's  smile, 
Taking  his  joy  with  bated,  doubtful  breath: 
This  other,  gnawed  by  hunger,  all  the  while 
Laughs  in  the  teeth  of  Death. 

5. 
GRACE  AND   STRENGTH. 

MANOAH'S  son,  in  his  blind  rage  malign 
Tumbling  the  temple  down  upon  his  foes, 
Did  no  such  feat  as  yonder  delicate  vine 
That  day  by  day  untired  holds  up  a  rose. 

6. 
AMONG  THE  PINES. 

FAINT  murmurs  from  the  pine-tops  reach  my  ear, 
As  if  a  harp-string  —  touched  in  some  far  sphere  — 
Vibrating  in  the  lucid  atmosphere, 
Let  the  soft  south  wind  waft  its  music  here. 


QUATRAINS.  79 

7. 
FROM  THE   SPANISH. 

To  him  that  hath,  we  are  told, 
Shall  be  given.     Yes,  by  the  Cross! 
To   the  rich  man  fate  sends  gold, 
To  the  poor  man  loss  on  loss. 

8. 

MASKS. 

BLACK  Tragedy  lets  slip  her  grim  disguise 
And  shows  you  laughing  lips  and  roguish  eyes ; 
But  when,  unmasked,  gay  Comedy  appears, 
'Tis  ten  to  one  you  find  the  girl  in  tears. 

9. 
COQUETTE. 

OR  light  or  dark,  or  short  or  tall, 
She  sets  a  springe  to  snare  them  all ; 
All 's  one  to  her  —  above  her  fan 
She  'd  make  sweet  eyes  at  Caliban. 

10. 
EPITAPHS. 

Honest  lago.     When  his  breath  was  fled 
Doubtless  these  words  were  carven  at  his  head. 
Such  lying  epitaphs  are  like  a  rose 
That  in  unlovely  earth  takes  root  and  grows. 


80  INTERLUDES. 

11. 
POPULARITY. 

SUCH  kings  of  shreds  have  wooed  and  won  her, 

Such  crafty  knaves  her  laurel  owned, 
It  has  become  almost  an  honor 
Not  to  be  crowned. 

12. 
HUMAN  IGNORANCE. 

WHAT  mortal  knows 
Whence  come  the  tint  and  odor  of   the  rose  ? 

What  probing  deep 
Has  ever  solved  the  mystery  of  sleep? 

13. 

SPENDTHRIFT. 

THE  fault 's  not  mine,  you  understand : 
God  shaped  my  palm  so  I  can  hold 
But  little  water  in  my  hand 
And  not  much  gold. 

14. 
THE  IRON  AGE. 

THE  wide-lipped  Sphinx,  with  bent  perplexed  brow, 
Crouches  in  desert  sand,  inert  and  pale, 
Hearing  the  engine's  raucous  scream,  that  now 
Sends  Echo  flying  through  the  Memphian  vale. 


QUATRAINS.  83 

15. 
ON  READING  . 

GREAT  thoughts  in  crude,  inadequate  verse  set  forth, 
Lose  half  their  preciousness,  and  ever  must. 
Unless  the  diamond  with  its  own  rich  dust 
Be  cut  and  polished,  it  seems  little  worth. 

16. 
THE  ROSE. 

FIXED  to  her  necklace,  like  another  gem, 
A  rose  she  wore  —  the  flower  June  made  for  her ; 
Fairer  it  looked  than  when  upon  the  stem, 
And  must,  indeed,  have  been  much  happier. 

17. 
MO  ON  RISE   AT   SEA. 

UP  from  the  dark  the  moon  begins  to  creep ; 
And  now  a  pallid,  haggard  face  lifts  she 
Above  the  water-line :  thus  from  the  deep 
A  drowned  body  rises  solemnly. 

18. 
THE   DIFFERENCE. 

SOME  weep  because  they  part, 
And  languish  broken-hearted, 
And  others  —  O  my  heart !  — 
Because  they  never  parted. 


84  INTERLUDES. 

19. 
FROM  EASTERN  SOURCES. 

I. 

IN  youth  my  hair  was  black  as  night, 
My  life  as  white  as  driven  snow: 
As  white  as  snow  my  hair  is  now, 
And  that  is  black  which  once  was  white. 

n. 

No  wonder  Sajib  wrote  such  verses,  when 
He  had  the  bill  of  nightingale  for  pen  ; 
Or  that  his  lyrics  were  divine 
Whose  only  ink  was  tears  and  wine. 

in. 

A    poor  dwarf's  figure,  looming  through  the  dense 
Mists  of  a  mountain,  seemed  a  shape  immense, 
On  seeing  which,  a  giant,  in  dismay, 

Took  to  his  heels  and  ran  away. 

20. 
THE  PARC^E. 

IN  their  dark  House  of  Cloud 
The  three  weird  sisters  toil  till  time  be  sped : 
One  unwinds  life ;  one  ever  weaves  the  shroud ; 

One  waits  to  cut  the  thread. 


PALINODE. 

i. 

WHEN  I  was  young  and  light  of  heart 
I  made  sad  songs  with  easy  art: 
Now  I  am  sad,  and  no  more  young, 
My  sorrow  cannot  find  a  tongue. 

ii. 

Pray,  Muses,  since  I  may  not  sing 
Of  Death  or  any  grievous  thing, 
Teach  me  some  joyous  strain,  that  I 
May  mock  my  youth's  hypocrisy! 


III. 

SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


SPRING  IN  NEW   ENGLAND 

AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 


THE  long  years  come  and  go, 

And  the  Past, 

The  sorrowful,  splendid  Past, 
With  its  glory  and  its  woe, 

Seems  never  to  have  been. 
The  bugle's  taunting  blast 
Has  died  away  by  Southern  ford  and  glen : 
The  mock-bird  sings  unf rightened  in  its  dell ; 
The  ensanguined  stream  flows  pure  again; 
Where  once  the  hissing  death-bolt  fell, 
And  all  along  the  artillery's  level  lines 

Leapt  flames  of  hell, 
The  farmer  smiles  upon  the  sprouting  grain, 

And  tends  his  vines. 
Seems  never  to  have  been? 
O  sombre  days  and  grand, 

How  ye  crowd  back  once  more, 
Seeing  our  heroes'  graves  are  green 
By  the  Potomac  and  the  Cumberland, 

And  in  the  valley  of  the  Shenandoah! 


90  SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

II. 

Now  while  the  pale  arbutus  in  our  woods 
Wakes  to  faint  life  beneath  the  dead  year's  leaves, 
And  the  bleak  North  lets  loose  its  wailing  broods 
Of  winds  upon  us,  and  the  gray  sea  grieves 
Along  our  coast;  while  yet  the  Winter's  hand 
Heavily  presses  on  New  England's  heart, 
And  Spring  averts  the  sunshine  of  her  eyes 
Lest  some  vain  cowslip  should  untimely  start  — 
While  we  are  housed  in  this  rude  season's  gloom, 

In  this  rude  land, 

Bereft  of  warmth  and  bloom, 
We  know,  far  off  beneath  the  Southern  skies, 
Where  the  flush  blossoms  mock  our  drifts  of  snow 
And  the  lithe  vine  unfolds  its  emerald  sheen  - 
On  many  a  sunny  hillside  there,  we  know 

Our  heroes'  graves  are  green. 

in. 
The  long  years  come,  but  they 

Come  not  again ! 
Through  vapors  dense  and  gray 

Steals  back  the  May, 
But  they  come  not  again  — 

Swept  by  the  battle's  fiery  breath 
Down  unknown  ways  of  death. 
How  can  our  fancies  help  but  go 
Out  from  this  realm  of   mist  and  rain, 
Out  from  this  realm  of  sleet  and  snow, 
When  the  first  Southern  violets  blow? 


SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.  93 

IV. 

While  yet  the  year  is  young 
Many  a  garland  shall  be  hung 

In  our  gardens  of  the  dead ; 
On  obelisk  and  urn 
Shall  the  lilac's  purple  burn, 

And  the  wild-rose  leaves  be  shed. 
And  afar  in  the  woodland  ways, 
Through  the  rustic  church-yard  gate 
Matrons  and  maidens  shall  pass, 
Striplings  and  white-haired  men, 
And,  spreading  aside  the  grass, 
Linger  at  name  and  date, 
Eemembering  old,  old  days! 
And  the  lettering  on  each  stone 
Where  the  mould's  green  breath  has  blown 
Tears  shall  wash  clear  again ! 

v. 

But  far  away  to  the  South,  in  the  sultry,  stricken 
land  — 

On  the  banks  of  silvery  streams  gurgling  among  their 
reeds, 

By  many  a  drear  morass,  where  the  long-necked  peli 
can  feeds, 

By  many  a  dark  bayou,  and  blinding  dune  of  sand, 

By  many  a  cypress  swamp  where  the  cayman  seeks 
its  prey, 

In  many  a  moss-hung  wood,  the  twilight's  haunt  by 
day, 


94 


SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 


And  down  where  the  land's  parched  lip  drinks  at  the 
salt  sea-waves, 

And  the  ghostly  sails  glide  by  —  there  are  piteous- 
nameless  graves. 


Their  names  no  tongue  may  tell, 
Buried  there  where  they  fell, 
The  bravest  of   our  braves! 
Never  sweetheart,  or  friend, 
Wan  pale  mother,  or  bride, 


SPRING  IN  NEW"  ENGLAND.  95 

Over  these  mounds  shall  bend, 

Tenderly  putting  aside 
The  unremembering  grass! 
Never  the  votive  wreath 
For  the  unknown  brows  beneath, 
Never  a  tear,  alas  ! 
How  can  our  fancies  help  but  go 
Out  from  this  realm  of  mist  and  rain, 
Out  from  this  realm  of  sleet  and  snow, 
When  the   first  Southern  violets  blow? 
How  must  our  thought  bend  over  them, 
Blessing  the  flowers  that  cover  them  — 
Piteous,  nameless  graves ! 

VI. 

Ah,  but  the  life  they  gave 
Is  not  shut  in  the  grave: 
The  valorous  spirits  freed 
Live  in  the  vital  deed! 
Marble  shall  crumble  to  dust, 
Plinth  of  bronze  and  of  stone, 
Carved  escutcheon  and  crest  — 
Silently,  one  by  one, 
The  sculptured  lilies  fall: 
Softly  the  tooth  of  the  rust 
Gnaws  through  the  brazen  shield  : 
Broken,  and  covered  with  stains, 
The  crossed  stone  swords  must  yield: 
Mined  by  the  frost  and  the  drouth, 
Smitten  by  north  and  south, 
Smitten  by  east  and  west, 
Down  comes  column  and  all  ! 
But  the  great  deed  remains. 


96  SPfilNG  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

VII. 

When  we   remember  how  they  died  — 

In  dark  ravine  and  on  the  mountain-side,. 

In  leaguered  fort  and  fire-encircled  town. 

Upon  the  gun-boat's  splintered  deck, 

And  where  the  iron  ships  went  down  — 

How  their  dear  lives  were  spent, 

In  the  crushed   and  reddened  wreck, 

By  lone   lagoons  and  streams, 

In  the  weary  hospital-tent, 

In  the  cockpit's  crowded  hive  — 

How  they  languished  and  died 

In  the  black  stockades  —  it  seems 

Ignoble  to  be  alive! 

Tears  will  well  to  our  eyes, 

And  the  bitter  doubt  will  rise  — 

But  hush  !  for  the  strife  is  done, 

Forgiven  are  wound  and  scar ; 

The  fight  was  fought  and  won 

Long  since,  on  sea  and  shore, 

And  every  scattered  star 

Set  in  the  blue  once  more : 

We  are  one  as  before, 

With  the  blot  from  our  scutcheon  gone  ! 

VIII. 

So  let  our  heroes  rest 

Upon  your  sunny  breast : 

Keep  them,  O  South,  our  tender  hearts  and  true, 
Keep  them,  O  South,  and  learn  to  hold  them  dear 
From  year  to  year ! 


SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.  97 

Never  forget, 

Dying  for  us,  they  died  for  you. 
This  hallowed   dust  should  knit  us  closer  yet. 

IX. 

Hark !  't  is  the  bluebird's  venturous   strain 
High  on  the  old  fringed  elm  at  the  gate  — 

Sweet-voiced,  valiant  on  the  swaying  bough, 

Alert,  elate, 

Dodging  the  fitful  spits  of  snow, 
New  England's  poet-laureate 
Telling  us  Spring  has  come  again  ! 


BABY   BELL. 

I. 
HAVE  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 

How  came  the  dainty  Baby  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours? 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar: 
With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes, 
Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 

Hung  in  the  glistening  depths  of  even  — 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 
O'er  which  the  white-winged  Angels  go, 

Bearing  the  holy  Dead  to  heaven. 
She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers  —  those  feet, 
So  light  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels, 


BABY  BELL.  99 

They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers:  * 

Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet ! 
And  thus  came  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours. 

n. 
She  came  and  brought  delicious  May. 

The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves ; 

Like  sunlight,  in  and  out  the  leaves 
The  robins  went,  the  livelong  day; 
The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell; 

And  o'er  the  porch  the  trembling  vine 

Seemed  bursting  with  its  veins  of  wine. 
How  sweetly,  softly,  twilight  fell! 
O,  earth  was  full  of  singing-birds 
And  opening  springtide  flowers, 
When  the  dainty  Baby  Bell 

Came  to  this  world  of  ours! 

in. 

O  Baby,  dainty  Baby  Bell, 
How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day ! 

What  woman-nature  filled  her  eyes, 
What  poetry  within  them  lay  — 
Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes, 

So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright 

As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise. 
And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more : 

Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before 

Was  love  so  lovely  born ! 
We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 


100  BABY  BELL. 

»     This  real  world  and  that  unseen  — 

The  land  beyond  the  morn; 
And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes, 
For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth, 
(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Baby  came  from  Paradise,)  — 
For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives, 

And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain, 
We  said,  Dear  Christ !  —  our  hearts  bent  down 
Like  violets  after  rain. 


IV. 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were  white 
And  red  with  blossoms  when  she  came, 
Were  rich  in  autumn's  mellow  prime ; 
The  clustered  apples  burnt  like  flame, 
The  sofVcheeked  peaches  blushed  and  fell, 
The  folded  chestnut  burst  its  shell, 
The  grapes  hung  purpling  in  the  grange: 
And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a  change 

In  little  Baby  Bell. 
Her  lissome  form  more  perfect  grew, 
And  in  her  features  we  could  trace, 
In  softened  curves,  her  mother's  face. 
Her  angel-nature  ripened  too : 
We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came, 
But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now  .  .  . 
Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 
We  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame  ! 


BABY  BELL.  101 

V. 

God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 
That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech ; 

And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words 
Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 

She  never  was  a  child  to  us, 

We  never  held  her  being's  key ; 

We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things : 

She  was  Christ's  self  in  purity. 

VI. 

It  came  upon  us  by  degrees, 
We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell  — 
The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 
His  messenger  for  Baby  Bell. 
We  shuddered  with  unlanguaged  pain, 
And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to  fears, 
And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 
Like  sunshine  into  rain. 
We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 
"  O,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God ! 
Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 
And  perfect  grow  through  grief." 
Ah!  how  we  loved  her,  God  can  tell; 
Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours. 
Our  hearts  are  broken,  Baby  Bell! 

VII. 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger, 

The  messenger  from  unseen  lands: 
And  what  did  dainty  Baby  Bell? 


102  BABY  BELL. 

She  only  crossed  her  little  hands, 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair ! 
We  parted  back  her  silken  hair, 
We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow  — 
White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow, 
Wrapt  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers 
And  thus  went  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours ! 


PAMPINA. 

LYING  by  the  summer  sea 
I  had  a  dream  of  Italy. 

Chalky  cliffs  and  miles  of  sand, 

Mossy  reefs  and  salty  caves, 

Then  the  sparkling  emerald  waves, 

Faded;  and  I  seemed  to  stand, 

Myself  a  languid  Florentine, 

In  the  heart  of  that  fair  land. 

And  in  a  garden  cool  and  green, 

Boccaccio's  own  enchanted  place, 

I  met  Pampina  face  to  face  — 

A  maid  so  lovely  that  to  see 

Her  smile  is  to  know  Italy  ! 

Her  hair  was  like  a  coronet 

Upon  her  Grecian  forehead  set, 

Where  one  gem  glistened  sunnily 

Like  Venice,  when  first  seen  at  sea. 

I  saw  within  her  violet  eyes 

The  starlight  of  Italian  skies, 

And  on  her  brow  and  breast  and  hand 

The  olive  of  her  native  land! 

And,  knowing  how  in  other  times 

Her  lips  were  ripe  with  Tuscan  rhymes 


104  P  AMPIN  A. 

Of  love  and  wine  and  dance,  I  spread 
My  mantle  by  an  almond-tree, 
And  "  Here,  beneath  the  rose,"  I  said, 
"  I  '11  hear  thy  Tuscan  melody." 
I  heard  a  tale  that  was  not  told 
In  those  ten  dreamy  days  of  old, 
When  Heaven,  for  some  divine  offence, 
Smote  Florence  with  the  pestilence; 
And  in  that  garden's  odorous  shade 
The  dames  of  the  Decameron, 
With  each  a  loyal  lover,  strayed, 
To  laugh  and  sing,  at  sorest  need, 
To  lie  in  the  lilies  in  the  sun 
With  glint  of  plume  and  silver  brede. 
And  while  she  whispers  in  my  ear, 
The  pleasant  Arno  murmurs  near, 
The  dewy,  slim   chameleons  run 
Through  twenty  colors  in  the  sun  ; 
The  breezes  blur  the  fountain's  glass, 
And  wake  ^Eolian  melodies, 
And  scatter  from  the  scented  trees 
The  lemon-blossoms  on  the  grass. 

The  tale  ?     I  have  forgot  the  tale  — 

A  Lady  all  for  love  forlorn, 

A  rosebud,  and   a  nightingale 

That  bruised  his  bosom  on  the  thorn; 

A  jar  of  rubies  buried  deep, 

A  glen,  a  corpse,  a  child  asleep, 

A  Monk,  that  was  no  monk  at  all, 

In  the  moonlight  by  a  castle-wall. 


P  AMP  IN  A.  105 

Now  while  the  large-eyed  Tuscan  wove 
The  gilded  thread  of  her  romance  — 
Which  I  have  lost  by  grievous  chance  — 
The  one  dear  woman  that  I  love, 
Beside  me  in  our  seaside  nook, 
Closed  a  white  finger  in  her  book, 
Half  vext  that  she  should  read,  and  weep 
For  Petrarch,  to  a  man  asleep! 
And  scorning  me,  so  tame  and  cold, 
She  rose,  and  wandered  down  the  shore, 
Her  wine-dark  drapery,  fold  in  fold, 
Imprisoned  by  an  ivory  hand; 
And  on  a  bowlder,  half  in  sand, 
She  stood,  and  looked  at  Appledore. 

And  waking,  I  beheld  her  there 

Sea-dreaming  in  the  moted  air, 

A  siren  lithe  and  debonair, 

With  wristlets  woven  of  scarlet  weeds, 

And  oblong  lucent  amber  beads 

Of  sea-kelp  shining  in  her  hair. 

And  as  I  thought  of  dreams,  and  how 

The  something  in  us  never  sleeps, 

But  laughs,  or  sings,  or   moans,  or  weeps, 

She  turned  —  and  on   her  breast  and  brow 

I  saw  the  tint  that  seemed  not  won 

From  kisses  of  New  England  sun  ; 

I  saw  on  brow  and  breast  and  hand 

The  olive  of  a  sunnier  land! 

She  turned  —  and,  lo  !  within  her  eyes 

There  lay  the  starlight  of  Italian  skies. 


106  LAMIA. 

Most  dreams  are  dark,  beyond  the  range 

Of  reason  ;  oft  we  cannot  tell 

If  they  are  born  of  heaven  or  hell: 

But  to  my  soul  it  seems  not  strange 

That,  lying  by  the  summer  sea, 

With  that  dark  woman  watching  me, 

I  slept  and  dreamed  of  Italy! 


LAMIA. 

Go  on  your  way,  and  let  me  pass. 
You  stop  a  wild  despair. 
I  would  that  I  were  turned  to  brass 
Like  that  chained  lion  there, 

Which,  couchant  by  the  postern  gate, 
In  weather  foul  or  fair, 
Looks  down  serenely  desolate, 
And  nothing  does  but  stare  ! 

Ah,  what  's  to  me  the  burgeoned  year, 
The  sad  leaf  or  the  gay? 
Let  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Their  falcons  fly  this  day. 

'T  will  be  as  royal  sport,  pardie, 
As  falconers  have  tried 
At  Astolat  —  but  let  me  be  ! 
I  would  that  I  had  died. 


LAMIA.  107 

I  met  a  woman  in  the  glade : 
Her  hair  was  soft  and  brown, 
And  long  bent  silken  lashes  weighed 
Her  ivory  eyelids  down. 

I  kissed  her  hand,  I  called  her  blest, 
I  held  her  leal  and  fair  — 
She  turned  to  shadow  on  my  breast, 
And  melted  into  air ! 

And,  lo !  about  me,  fold  on  fold, 
A  writhing  serpent  hung  — 
An  eye  of  jet,  a  skin  of  gold, 
A  garnet  for  a  tongue! 

O,  let  the  petted  falcons  fly 
Right  merry  in  the  sun  ; 
But  let  me  be  !  for  I  shall  die 
Before  the  year  is  done. 


INVOCATION  TO  SLEEP. 

i. 
THERE  is  a  rest  for  all  things.     On  still  nights 

There  is  a  folding  of  a  million  wings  — 
The  swarming  honey-bees  in  unknown  woods, 
The  speckled  butterflies,  and  downy  broods 

In  dizzy  poplar  heights  : 
Eest  for  innumerable  nameless  things, 
Rest  for  the  creatures  underneath  the  Sea, 

And  in  the  Earth,  and  in  the  starry  Air  .  .  . 

Why  will  it  not  unburden  me  of  care  ? 

It  comes  to  meaner  things  than  my  despair. 
O  weary,  weary  night,  that  brings  no  rest  to  me! 

n. 
Spirit  of  dreams  and  silvern  memories, 

Delicate  Sleep! 

One  who  is  sickening  of  his  tiresome  days 
Brings  thee  a  soul  that  he  would  have  thee  keep 
A  captive  in  thy  mystical  domain, 
With  Puck  and  Ariel,  and  the  grotesque  train 
That  people  slumber.     Give  his  sight 
Immortal  shapes,  and  bring  to  him  again 
His  Psyche  that  went  out  into  the  night ! 


INVOCATION  TO  SLEEP.  109 

III. 

Thou  who  dost  hold  the  priceless  keys  of  rest, 
Strew  lotus-leaves  and  poppies  on  my  breast, 

And  bear  me  to  thy  castle  in  the  land 
Touched  with  all  colors  like  a  burning  west  — 
The  Castle  of  Vision,  where  the  unchecked  thought 
Wanders  at  will  upon  enchanted  ground, 
Making  no  sound 
In  all  the  corridors  .  .  . 

The  bell  sleeps  in  the  belfry  —  from  its  tongue 
A  drowsy  murmur  floats  into  the  air, 
Like  thistle-down.     Slumber  is  everywhere. 
The  rook  's  asleep,  and,  in  its  dreaming,  caws ; 
And  silence  mopes  where  nightingales  have  sung  ; 
The  Sirens  lie  in  grottos  cool  and  deep, 

The  Naiads  in  the  streams : 
But  I,  in  chilling  twilight,  stand  and  wait 
At  the  portcullis,  at  thy  castle  gate, 
Yearning  to  see  the  magic  door  of  dreams 
Turn  on  its  noiseless  hinges,  delicate  Sleep  ! 


SEADRIFT. 

SEE  where  she  stands,  on  the  wet  sea-sands, 

Looking  across  the  water: 
Wild  is  the  night,  but  wilder  still 

The  face  of  the  fisher's  daughter ! 

What  does  she  there,  in  the  lightning's  glare, 

What  does  she  there,  I  wonder? 
What  dread  demon  drags  her  forth 

In  the  night  and  wind  and  thunder  ? 

Is  it  the  ghost  that  haunts  this  coast  ?  — 

The  cruel  waves  mount  higher, 
And  the  beacon  pierces  the  stormy  dark 

With  its  javelin  of  fire. 

Beyond  the  light  of  the  beacon  bright 

A  merchantman  is  tacking  ; 
The  hoarse  wind  whistling  through  the  shrouds, 

And  the  brittle  topmasts  cracking. 

The  sea  it  moans  over  dead  men's  bones, 

The  sea  it  foams  in  anger ; 
The  curlews  swoop  through  the  resonant  air 

With  a  warning  cry  of  danger. 


SE  ADRIFT.  11 3 

The  star-fish  clings  to  the  sea-weed's  rings 

In  a  vague,  dumb  sense  of  peril ; 
And  the  spray,  with  its  phantom-fingers,  grasps 

At  the  mullein  dry  and  sterile. 

O,  who  is  she  that  stands  by  the  sea, 
In  the  lightning's  glare,  undaunted  ?  — 

Seems  this  now  like  the  coast  of  hell 
By  one  white  spirit  haunted ! 

The  night  drags  by;  and  the  breakers  die 

Along  the  ragged  ledges ; 
The  robin  stirs  in  its  drenched  nest, 

The  hawthorn  blooms  on  the  hedges. 

In  shimmering  lines,  through  the  dripping  pines, 

The  stealthy  morn  advances ; 
And  the  heavy  sea-fog  straggles  back 

Before  those  bristling  lances  ! 

Still  she  stands  on  the  wet  sea-sands ; 

The  morning  breaks  above  her, 
And  the  corpse  of  a  sailor  gleams  on  the  rocks  — 

What  if  it  were  her  lover? 


IN  THE  OLD  CHURCH  TOWER. 

IN  the  old  church  tower 

Hangs  the  bell ; 
And  abbve  it  on  the  vane, 
In  the  sunshine  and  the  rain, 
Cut  in  gold,  St.  Peter  stands, 
With  the  keys  in  his  claspt  hands, 

And  all  is  well. 

In  the  old  church  tower 

Hangs  the  bell ; 

You  can  hear  its  great  heart  beat, 
Ah !  so  loud,  and  wild,  and  sweet, 
As  the  parson  says  a  prayer 
Over  wedded  lovers  there, 

And  all  is  well. 

In  the  old  church  tower 

Hangs  the  bell ; 
Deep  and  solemn,  hark!  again, 
Ah,  what  passion  and  what  pain ! 
With  her  hands  upon  her  breast, 
Some  poor  Soul  has  gone  to  rest 

Where  all  is  well. 


PISCATAQUA   RIVER.  115 

In  the  old  church  tower 

Hangs  the  bell  — 
An  old  friend  that  seems  to  know 
All  our  joy  and  all  our  woe  ; 
It  is  glad  when  we  are  wed, 
It  is  sad  when  we  are  dead, 

And  all  is  well! 


PISCATAQUA   RIVER. 

THOU  singest  by  the  gleaming  isles, 
By  woods,  and  fields  of  corn, 
Thou  singest,  and  the  sunlight  smiles 
Upon  my  birthday  morn. 

But  I  within  a  city,  I, 
So  full  of  vague  unrest, 
Would  almost  give  my  life  to  lie 
An  hour  upon  thy  breast! 

To  let  the  wherry  listless  go, 
And,  wrapt  in  dreamy  joy, 
Dip,  and  surge  idly  to  and  fro, 
Like  the  red  harbor-buoy; 

To  sit  in  happy  indolence, 

To  rest  upon  the  oars, 

And  catch  the  heavy  earthy  scents 

That  blow  from  summer  shores ; 


116  PIS  CAT  AQUA  RIVER. 

To  see  the  rounded  sun  go  down, 
And  with  its  parting  fires 
Light  up  the  windows  of  the  town 
And  burn  the  tapering  spires  ; 

And  then  to  hear  the  muffled  tolls 
From  steeples  slim  and  white, 
And  watch,  among  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
The  Beacon's  orange  light. 

O  River !  flowing  to  the  main 
Through  woods,  and  fields  of  corn, 
Hear  thou  my  longing  and  my  pain 
This  sunny  birthday  morn  ; 


THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE   GODDESS.  117 

And  take  this  song  which  sorrow  shapes 
To  music  like  thine  own, 
And  sing  it  to  the  cliffs  and  capes 
And  crags  where  I  am  known ! 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE   GODDESS. 

A  MAN  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof, 
And  have  few  friends,  and  go  poorly  clad, 
With  an  old  hat  stopping  the  chink  in  the  roof, 
To  keep  the  Goddess  constant  and  glad. 

Of  old,  when  I  walked  on  a  rugged  way, 
And  gave  much  work  for  but  little  bread, 
The  Goddess  dwelt  with  me  night  and  day, 
Sat  at  my  table,  haunted  my  bed. 

The  narrow,  mean  attic,  I  see  it  now !  — 
Its  window  o'erlooking  the  city's  tiles, 
The  sunset's  fires,  and  the  clouds  of  snow, 
And  the  river  wandering  miles  and  miles. 

Just  one  picture  hung  in  the  room, 
The  saddest  story  that  Art  can  tell  — 
Dante  and  Virgil  in  lurid  gloom 
Watching  the  Lovers  float  through  Hell. 

Wretched  enough  was  I  sometimes, 
Pinched,  and  harassed  with  vain  desires  ; 
But  thicker  than  clover  sprung  the  rhymes 
As  I  dwelt  like  a  sparrow  among  the  spires. 


118      THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  GODDESS. 

Midnight  filled  my  slumbers  with  song ; 
Music  haunted  my  dreams  by  day 
Now  I  listen  and  wait  and  long, 
But  the  Delphian  airs  have  died  away. 

I  wonder  and  wonder  how  it  befell : 
Suddenly  I  had  friends  in  crowds; 
I  bade  the  house-tops  a  long  farewell; 
"Good-by,"  I  cried,  "to  the  stars  and  clouds! 

"  But  thou,  rare  soul,  that  hast  dwelt  with  me, 
Spirit  of  Poesy!    thou  divine 
Breath  of  the  morning,  thou  shalt  be, 
Goddess  !  for  ever  and  ever  mine." 

And  the  woman  I  loved  was  now  my  bride, 
And  the  house  I  wanted  was  my  own  ; 
I  turned  to  the  Goddess  satisfied  — 
But  the  Goddess  had  somehow  flown! 

Flown,  and  I  fear  she  will  never  return  ; 
I  am  much  too  sleek  and  happy  for  her, 
Whose  lovers  must  hunger,  and  waste,  and  burn, 
Ere  the  beautiful  heathen  heart  will  stir! 

I  call  —  but  she  does  not  stoop  to  my  cry  ; 
I  wait  —  but  she  lingers,  and  ah !  so  long ! 
It  was  not  so  in  the  years  gone  by, 
When  she  touched  my  lips  with  chrism  of  song. 

I  swear  I  will  get  me  a  garret  again, 
And  adore,  like  a  Parsee,  the  sunset's  fires, 


ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD   OF  MINERVA.        119 

And  lure  the  Goddess,  by  vigil  and  pain, 
Up  with  the  sparrows  among  the  spires. 

For  a  man  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof, 
And  have  few  friends,  and  go  poorly  clad, 
With  an  old  hat  stopping  the  chink  in  the  roof, 
To  keep  the  Goddess  constant  and  glad. 


ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD  OF  MINERVA. 

BENEATH  the  warrior's  helm,  behold 
The  flowing  tresses  of  the  woman ! 

Minerva,  Pallas,  what  you  will  — 

A  winsome  creature,  Greek  or  Roman. 

Minerva  ?    No  !  't  is  some  sly  minx 
In  cousin's  helmet  masquerading  ; 

If  not  —  then  Wisdom  was  a  dame 
For  sonnets  and  for  serenading ! 

I  thought  the  goddess  cold,  austere, 

Not  made  for  love's  despairs  and  blisses  : 


120        ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD   OF  MINERVA. 

Did  Pallas  wear  her  hair  like  that? 

Was  Wisdom's  month  so  shaped  for  kisses? 

The  Nightingale   should  be  her  bird, 

And  not  the  Owl,  big-eyed  and  solemn  : 

How  very  fresh  she  looks,  and  yet 

She  's  older  far  than  Trajan's  Column ! 

The  magic  hand  that  carved  this  *£ace, 
And  set  this  vine-work  round  it  running, 

Perhaps  ere  mighty  Phidias  wrought 
Had  lost  its  subtle  skill  and  cunning. 

Who  was  he?  Was  he  glad  or  sad, 
Who  knew  to  carve  in  such  a  fashion? 

Perchance  he  graved  the  dainty  head 

For  some  brown  girl  that  scorned  his  passion. 

Perchance,  in  some  still  garden-place, 
Where  neither  fount  nor  tree  to-day  is, 

He  flung  the  jewel  at  the  feet 

Of  Phryne,  or  perhaps  't  was  Lai's. 

But  he  is  dust ;  we  may  not  know 

His  happy  or  unhappy  story : 
Nameless,  and  dead  these  centuries, 

His  work  outlives  him  —  there  's  his  glory  I 

Both  man  and  jewel  lay  in  earth 

Beneath  a  lava-buried  city; 
The  countless  summers  came  and  went 

With  neither  haste,  nor  hate,  nor  pity. 


AN  OLD   CASTLE.  121 

Years  blotted  out  the  man,  but  left 
The  jewel  fresh  as  any  blossom, 

Till  some  Yisconti  dug  it  up  — 

To  rise  and  fall  on  Mabel's  bosom ! 

O  nameless  brother !  see  how  Time 

Your  gracious  handiwork  has  guarded : 

See  how  your  loving,  patient  art 
Has  come,  at  last,  to  be  rewarded. 

Who  would  not  suffer  slights  of  men, 
And  pangs  of  hopeless  passion  also, 

To  have  his  carven  agate-stone 

On  such  a  bosom  rise  and  fall  so ! 


AN   OLD  CASTLE. 


THE  gray  arch  crumbles, 

And  totters,  and  tumbles  ; 

The  bat  has  built  in  the  banquet  hall; 

In  the  donjon-keep 

Sly  mosses  creep ; 

The  ivy  has  scaled  the  southern  wall : 

No  man-at-arms 

Sounds  quick  alarms 

A-top  of  the  cracked  martello  tower  : 

The  drawbridge-chain 

Is  broken  in  twain  — 

The  bridge  will  neither  rise  nor  lower. 


122  AN  OLD   CASTLE. 

Not  any  manner 

Of  broidered  banner 

Flaunts  at  a  blazoned  herald's  call. 

Lilies  float 

In  the  stagnant  moat ; 

And  fair  they  are,  and  tall. 

n. 

Here,  in  the  old 

Forgotten  springs, 

Was  wassail  held  by  queens  and  kings  ; 

Here  at  the  board 

Sat  clown  and  lord, 

Maiden  fair  and  lover  bold, 

Baron  fat  and  minstrel  lean, 

The  prince  with  his  stars, 

The  knight  with  his  scars, 

The  priest  in  his  gabardine. 

III. 

Where  is  she 

Of  the  fleur-de-lys, 

And  that  true  knight  who  wore  her  gages? 

Where  are  the  glances 

That  bred  wild  fancies 

In  curly  heads  of  my  lady's  pages? 

Where  are  those 

Who,  in  steel  or  hose, 

Held  revel  here,  and  made  them  gay? 

Where  is  the  laughter 

That  shook  the  rafter  — 

Where  is  the  rafter,  by  the  way? 


AN  OLD   CASTLE.  123 

Gone  is  the  roof, 

And  perched  aloof 

Is  an  owl,  like  a  friar  of  Orders  Gray. 

(Perhaps  'tis  the  priest 

Come  back  to  feast  — 

He  had  ever  a  tooth  for  capon,  he ! 

But  the  capon  's  cold, 

And  the  steward  's  old, 

And  the  butler's  lost  the  larder-key!) 

The  doughty  lords 

Sleep  the  sleep  of  swords. 

Dead  are  the  dames  and  damozels. 

The  King  in  his  crown 

Hath  laid  him  down, 

And  the  Jester  with  his  bells. 

IV. 

All  is  dead  here  : 

Poppies  are  red  here, 

Vines  in  my  lady's  chamber  grow  — 

If  't  was  her  chamber 

Where  they  clamber 

Up  from  the  poisonous  weeds  below. 

All  is  dead  here, 

Joy  is  fled  here  ; 

Let  us  hence.     'Tis  the  end  of  all  — 

The  gray  arch  crumbles, 

And  totters,  and  tumbles, 

And  Silence  sits  in  the  banquet  hall. 


LOST  AT  SEA. 

THE  face  that  Carlo  Dolci  drew 
Looks  down  from  out  its  leafy  hood  — 
The  holly  berries,  gleaming  through 
The  pointed  leaves,  seem  drops  of  blood. 

Above  the  cornice,  round  the  hearth, 
Are  evergreens  and  spruce-tree  boughs ; 
'T  is  Christmas  morning :    Christmas  mirth 
And  joyous  voices  fill  the  house. 

I  pause,  and  know  not  what  to  do  ; 
I  feel  reproach  that  I  am  glad: 
Until  to-day,  no  thought  of  you, 
O  Comrade  !    ever  made  me  sad. 

But  now  the  thought  of  your  blithe  heart, 
Your  ringing  laugh,  can  give  me  pain, 
Knowing  that  we  are  worlds  apart, 
Not  knowing  we  shall  meet  again. 

For  all  is  dark  that  lies  in  store  : 
Though  they  may  preach,  the  brotherhood, 
We  know  just  this,  and  nothing  more, 
That  we  are  dust,  and  God  is  good. 


LOST  AT  SEA.  125 

What  life  begins  when  death  makes  end  ? 
Sleek  gownsmen,  is  't  so  very  clear  ? 
How  fares  it  with  us?  —  O,  my  Friend, 
I  only  know  you  are  not  here ! 

That  I  am  in  a  warm,  light  room, 
With  life  and  love  to  comfort  me, 
While  you  are  drifting  through  the  gloom, 
Beneath  the  sea,  beneath  the  sea! 

0  wild  green  waves  that  lash  the  sands 
Of  Santiago  and  beyond, 

Lift  him,  I  pray,  with  gentle  hands, 
And  bear  him  on  —  true  heart  and  fond ! 

To  some  still  grotto  far  below 
The  washings  of  the  warm  Gulf  Stream 
Bear  him,  and  let  the  winds  that  blow 
About  the  world  not  break  his  dream ! 

—  I  smooth  my  brow.     Upon  the  stair 

1  hear  my  children  shout  in  glee, 
With  sparkling  eyes  and  floating  hair, 
Bringing  a  Christmas  wreath  for  me. 

Their  joy,  like  sunshine  deep  and  broad, 
Falls  on  my  heart,  and  makes  me  glad: 
I  think  the  face  of  our  dear  Lord 
Looks  down  011  them,  and  seems  not  sad. 


IN  AN  ATELIER. 

I  PRAY  you,  do  not  turn  your  head ; 
And  let  your  hands  lie  folded,  so. 
It  was  a  dress  like  this,  wine-red, 
That  Dante  liked  so,  long  ago. 
You  don't  know  Dante  ?     Never  mind. 
He  loved  a  lady  wondrous  fair  — 
His  model  ?     Something  of  the  kind. 
I  wonder  if  she  had  your  hair! 

I  wonder  if  she  looked  so  meek, 
And  was  not  meek  at   all  (my  dear, 
I  want  that  side  light  on  your  cheek). 
He  loved  her,  it  is  very  clear, 
And  painted  her,  as  I  paint  you, 
But  rather  better,  on  the  whole 
(Depress  your  chin ;  yes,  that  will  do)  : 
He  was  a  painter  of  the  soul ! 

(And  painted  portraits,  too,  I  think, 
In  the  INFERNO  —  devilish  good ! 
I  'd  make  some  certain  critics  blink 
If  I  'd  his  method  and  his  mood.) 
Her  name  was  (Fanny,  let  your  glance 
Rest  there,  by  that  majolica  tray)  — 


IN  AN  ATELIER.  127 

Was  Beatrice ;  they  met  by  chance  — 
They  met  by  chance,  the  usual  way. 

(As  you  and  I  met,  months  ago, 
Do  you  remember?     How  your  feet 
Went  crinkle-crinkle  011  the  snow 
Along  the  bleak  gas-lighted  street  ! 
An  instant  in  the  drug-store's  glare 
You  stood  as  in  a  golden  frame, 
And  then  I  swore  it,  then  and  there, 
To  hand  your  sweetness  down  to  fame.) 

They  met,  and  loved,  and  never  wed 
(All  this  was  long  before  our  time), 
And  though  they  died,  they  are  not  dead  — 
Such  endless  youth  gives  mortal  rhyme  ! 
Still  walks  the  earth,  with  haughty  mien, 
Great  Dante,  in  his  soul's  distress ; 
And  still  the  lovely  Florentine 
Goes  lovely  in  her  wine-red  dress. 

You  do  not  understand  at  all? 

He  was  a  poet ;  on  his  page 

He  drew  her;  and,  though  kingdoms  fall, 

This  lady  lives  from  age  to  age : 

A  poet  —  that  means  painter  too, 

For  words  are  colors,  rightly  laid  ; 

And  they  outlast  our  brightest  hue, 

For  varnish  cracks  and  crimsons  fade. 

The  poets  —  they  are  lucky  ones ! 
When  we  are  thrust  upon  the  shelves, 


128  IN  AN  ATELIER. 

Our  works  turn  into  skeletons 
Almost  as  quickly  as  ourselves  ; 
For  our  poor  canvas  peels  at  length, 
At  length  is  prized  —  when  all  is  bare : 
"  What  grace  !  "  the  critics  cry,  "  what  strength  !  " 
When  neither  strength  nor  grace  is  there. 

Ah,  Fanny,  I  am   sick  at  heart, 
It  is  so  little  one  can  do; 
We  talk  our  jargon  —  live  for  Art ! 
I  'd  much  prefer  to  live  for  you. 
How  dull  and  lifeless  colors  are  ! 
You  smile,  and  all  my  picture  lies  : 
I  wish  that  I  could  crush  a  star 
To  make  a  pigment  for  your  eyes. 

Yes,  child,  I  know  I  'm  out  of  tune  ; 
The  light  is  bad ;  the  sky  is  gray : 
I  paint  no  more  this  afternoon, 
So  lay  your  royal  gear  away. 
Besides,  you  're  moody  —  chin  on  hand  — 
I  know  not  what  —  not  in  the  vein  — 
Not  like  Anne  Bullen,   sweet  and  bland : 
You  sit  there  smiling  in  disdain. 

Not  like  Bluff  Harry's  radiant  Queen, 

Unconscious  of   the  coming  woe, 

But  rather  as  she  might  have  been, 

Preparing  for  the  headsman's  blow. 

I  see !  I  've  put  you  in  a  miff  — 

Sitting   bolt-upright,  wrist  on  wrist. 

How  should  you  look  ?     Why,  dear,  as  if  — 

Somehow  —  as  if  you  'd  just  been  kissed ! 


THE  QUEEN'S  RIDE. 

AN   INVITATION. 

'T  is  that  fair  time  of  year, 

Lady  mine, 

When  stately  Guinevere, 
In  her  sea-green  robe  and  hood, 
Went  a-riding  through  the  wood, 

Lady  mine. 

And  as  the  Queen  did  ride, 

Lady  mine, 

Sir  Launcelot  at  her  side 
Laughed  and  chatted,  bending  over, 
Half  her  friend  and  all  her  lover, 

Lady  mine. 

And  as  they  rode  along, 

Lady  mine, 

The  throstle  gave  them  song, 
And  the  buds  peeped  through  the  grass 
To  see  youth  and  beauty  pass, 

Lady  mine. 

And  on,  through  deathless  time, 
Lady  mine, 

9 


130  THE   QUEEN'S  RIDE. 

These  lovers  in  their  prime, 
(Two  fairy  ghosts  together!) 
Ride,  with  sea-green  robe,  and  feather! 
Lady  mine. 

And  so  we  two  will  ride, 

Lady  mine, 

At  your  pleasure,  side  by  side, 
Laugh  and  chat;    I  bending  over, 
Half  your  friend  and  all  your  lover, 

Lady  mine. 

But  if  you  like  not  this, 

Lady  mine, 

And  take  my  love  amiss, 
Then  I  '11  ride  unto  the  end, 
Half  your  lover,  all  your  friend, 

Lady  mine. 

So,  come  which  way  you  will, 

Lady  mine, 

Vale,  upland,  plain,  and  hill 
Wait  your  coming.     For  one  day 
Loose  the  bridle,  and  away! 

Lady  mine. 


DIRGE. 

LET  us  keep  him  warm, 
Stir  the  dying  fire  : 
Upon  his  tired  arm 
Slumbers  young  Desire. 

Soon,  ah,  very  soon 
We  too  shall  not  know 
Either  sun  or  moon, 
Either  grass  or  snow. 

Others  in  our  place 
Come  to  laugh  and  weep, 
Win  or  lose  the  race, 
And  to  fall  asleep. 

Let  us  keep  him  warm, 
Stir  the  dying  fire  : 
Upon  his  tired  arm 
Slumbers  young  Desire. 

What  does  all  avail  — 
Love,  or  power,  or  gold? 
Life  is  like  a  tale 
Ended  ere  'tis  told. 


134  DIRGE. 

Much  is  left  unsaid, 
Much  is  said  in  vain  — 
Shall  the  broken  thread 
Be  taken  up  again  ? 

Let  us  keep  him  warm, 
Stir  the  dying  fire  : 
Upon  his  tired  arm 
Slumbers  young  Desire. 

Kisses  one  or  two 
On  his  eyelids  set, 
That,  when  all  is  through, 
He  may  not  forget. 

He  has  far  to  go  — 
Is  it  East  or  West  ? 
Whither?     Who  may  know! 
Let  him  take  his  rest. 

Wind,  and  snow,  and  sleet  — 
So  the  long  night  dies. 
Draw  the  winding-sheet, 
Cover  up  his  eyes. 

Let  us  keep  him  warm, 
Stir  the  dying  fire  : 
Upon  his  tired  arm 
Slumbers  young  Desire. 


THE   PIAZZA   OF   ST.   MARK   AT   MIDNIGHT. 

HUSHED  is  the  music,  hushed  the  hum  of  voices  ; 
Gone  is  the  crowd  of  dusky  promenaders  — 
Slender-waisted,  almond-eyed  Venetians, 
Princes  and  paupers.     Not  a  single  footfall 
Sounds  in  the  arches  of  the  Procuratie. 
One  after  one,  like  sparks  in  cindered  paper, 
Faded  the  lights  out  in  the  goldsmiths'  windows. 
Drenched  with  the  moonlight  lies  the  still  Piazza. 

Fair  as  the  palace  builded  for  Aladdin, 
Yonder  St.  Mark  uplifts  its  sculptured  splendor  — 
Intricate  fretwork,  Byzantine  mosaic, 
Color  on  color,  column  upon  column, 
Barbaric,  wonderful,  a  thing  to  kneel  to  ! 
Over  the  portal  stand  the  four  gilt  horses, 
Gilt  hoof  in  air,  and  wide  distended  nostril, 
Fiery,  untamed,  as  in  the  days  of  Nero. 
Skyward,  a  cloud  of  domes  and  spires  and  crosses  ; 
Earthward,  black  shadows  flung  from  jutting  stone 
work. 

High  over  all  the  slender  Campanile 
Quivers,  and  seems  a  falling  shaft  of  silver! 

Hushed  is  the  music,  hushed  the  hum  of  voices, 
From  coigne  and  cornice  and  fantastic  gargoyle, 


136  THE  METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

At  intervals  the  moan  of  dove  or  pigeon, 
Fairly  faint,  floats  off  into  the  moonlight. 
This,  and  the  murmur  of  the  Adriatic, 
Lazily  restless,  lapping  the  mossed  marble, 
Staircase  or  buttress,  scarcely  break  the  stillness. 
Deeper  each  moment  seems   to  grow  the  silence, 
Denser  the  moonlight  in  the  still  Piazza. 
Hark !  on  the  Tower  above  the  ancient  gateway, 
The  twin  bronze  Vulcans,  with  their  ponderous  ham 
mers, 
Hammer  the  midnight  on  their  brazen  bell  there  ! 


THE   METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

ABOVE  the  petty  passions  of  the  crowd 

I  stand  in  frozen  marble  like  a  god, 

Inviolate,  and  ancient  as  the  moon. 

The  thing  I  am,  and  not  the  thing  Man  is, 

Fills  my  deep  dreaming.     Let  him  moan  and  die; 

For  he  is  dust  that  shall  be  laid  again  : 

I  know  my  own  creation  was  divine. 

Strewn  on  the  breezy  continents  I  see 

The  veine'd  shells  and  burnished  scales  which  once 

Enclosed  my  being  —  husks  that  had  their  use ; 

I  brood  on  all  the  shapes  I  must  attain 

Before  I  reach  the  Perfect,  which  is  God, 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  let  the  rabble  go  ; 

For  I  am  of  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 

The  deserts,  and  the  caverns  in  the  earth, 

The  catacombs  and  fragments  of  old  worlds. 


THE  METEMPSYCHOSIS.  137 

I  was  a  spirit  on  the  mountain-tops, 
A  perfume  in  the  valleys,  a  simoom 
On  arid  deserts,  a  nomadic  wind 
Roaming;  the  universe,  a  tireless  Voice. 
I  was  ere  Romulus  and  Remus  were  ; 
I  was  ere  Nineveh  and  Babylon  ; 
I  was,  and  am,  and  evermore  shall  be, 
Progressing,  never  reaching  to  the  end. 

A  hundred  years  I  trembled  in  the  grass, 
The  delicate  trefoil  that  muffled  warm 
A  slope  on  Ida ;  for  a  hundred  years 
Moved  in  the  purple  gyre  of  those  dark  flowers 
The  Grecian  women  strew  upon  the  dead. 
Under  the  earth,  in  fragrant   glooms,  I  dwelt  ; 
Then  in  the  veins  and  sinews  of  a  pine 
On  a  lone  isle,  where,  from  the  Cyclades, 
A  mighty  wind,  like  a  leviathan, 
Ploughed  through  the  brine,  and  from  those  solitudes 
Sent  Silence,  frightened.     To  and  fro  I  swayed, 
Drawing  the  sunshine  from  the  stooping  clouds. 
Suns  came  and  went,  and  many  a  mystic  moon, 
Orbing  and  waning,  and  fierce  meteors, 
Leaving  their  lurid  ghosts  to  haunt  the  night. 
I  heard  loud  voices  by  the  sounding  shore, 
The  stormy  sea-gods,  and  from  fluted  conchs 
Wild  music,  and  strange  shadows  floated  by, 
Some  moaning  and   some  singing.     So  the  years 
Clustered  about  me,  till  the  hand  of  God 
Let  down  the  lightning  from  a  sultry  sky, 
Splintered  the  pine  and  split  the  iron  rock ; 
And  from  my  odorous  prison-house  a  bird, 
I  in  its  bosom,  darted:  so  we  flew, 


138  THE  METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

Turning  the  brittle  edge  of  one  high  wave, 
Island  and  tree  and  sea-gods  left  behind! 

Free  as  the  air  from  zone  to  zone  I  flew, 
Far  from  the  tumult  to  the  quiet  gates 
Of  daybreak;  and  beneath  me  I  beheld 
Vineyards,  and  rivers  that  like  silver  threads 
Ran  through  the  green  and  gold  of  pasture-lands, 
And  here  and  there  a  hamlet,  a  white  rose, 
And  here  and  there  a  city,  whose  slim  spires 
And  palace-roofs  and  swollen  domes  uprose 
Like  scintillant  stalagmites  in  the  sun ; 
I  saw  huge  navies  battling  with  a  storm 
By  ragged  reefs  along  the  desolate  coasts, 
And  lazy  merchantmen,  that  crawled,  like  flies, 
Over  the  blue  enamel  of  the  sea 
To  India  or  the  icy  Labradors. 

A  century  was  as  a  single  day. 
What  is  a  day  to  an  immortal  soul? 
A  breath,  no  more.     And  yet  I  hold  one  hour 
Beyond  all  price  —  that  hour  when  from  the  sky 
I  circled  near  and  nearer  to  the  earth, 
Nearer  and  nearer,  till  I  brushed  my  wings 
Against  the  pointed  chestnuts,  where  a  stream, 
That  foamed  and  chattered  over  pebbly  shoals, 
Fled  through  the  briony,  and  with  a  shout 
Leapt  headlong  down  a  precipice ;  and  there, 
Gathering  wild-flowers  in  the  cool  ravine, 
Wandered  a  woman  more  divinely  shaped 
Than  any  of  the  creatures  of  the  air, 
Or  river-goddesses,  or  restless  shades 
Of  noble  matrons  marvellous  in  their  time 
For  beauty  and  great  suffering  ;  and  I  sung, 


THE  METEMPSYCHOSIS.  139 

I  charmed  her  thought,  I  gave  her  dreams,  and  then 

Down  from  the  dewy  atmosphere  I  stole 

And  nestled  in  her  bosom.     There  I  slept 

From  moon  to  moon,  while  in  her  eyes  a  thought 

Grew  sweet  and  sweeter,  deepening  like  the  dawn  — 

A  mystical  forewarning!     When  the  stream, 

Breaking  through  leafless  brambles  and  dead  leaves, 

Piped  shriller  treble,  and  from  chestnut  boughs 

The  fruit  dropt  noiseless  through  the  autumn  night, 

I  gave  a  quick,  low  cry,  as  infants  do : 

We  weep  when  we  are  born,  not  when  we  die  ! 

So  was  it  destined;  and  thus  came  I  here, 

To  walk  the  earth  and  wear  the  form  of  Man, 

To  suffer  bravely  as  becomes  my  state, 

One  step,  one  grade,  one  cycle  nearer  God. 

And  knowing  these  things,  can  I  stoop  to  fret, 
And  lie,  and  haggle  in  the  market-place, 
Give  dross  for  dross,  or  everything  for  naught  ? 
No !    let  me  stand  above  the  crowd,  and  sing, 
Waiting  with  hope  for  that  miraculous  change 
Which  seems  like  sleep ;  and  though  I  waiting  starve, 
I  cannot  kiss  the  idols  that  are  set 
By  every  gate,  in  every  street  and  park; 
I  cannot  fawn,  I  cannot  soil  my  soul ; 
For  I  am  of  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
The  deserts,  and  the  caverns  in  the  earth, 
The  catacombs  and  fragments  of  old  worlds. 


THORWALDSEN. 

WE  often  fail  by  searching  far  and  wide 
For  what  lies  close  at  hand.     To  serve  our  turn 
We  ask  fair  wind  and  favorable  tide. 
From  the  dead  Danish  sculptor  let  us  learn 
To  make  Occasion,  not  to  be  denied : 
Against  the  sheer,  precipitous  mountain-side 
Thorwaldsen  carved  his  Lion  at  Lucerne. 


IV. 

FEIAE  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL 
BOOK,    ETC. 


FRIAR    JEROME'S    BEAUTIFUL    BOOK, 

ETC. 


FRIAR  JEROME'S   BEAUTIFUL   BOOK. 

A.  D.  1200. 

THE  Friar  Jerome,  for  some  slight  sin, 
Done  in  his  youth,  was  struck  with  woe. 
"  When  I  am  dead,"  quoth  Friar  Jerome, 
"  Surely,  I  think  my  soul  will  go 
Shuddering  through  the  darkened  spheres, 
Down  to  eternal  fires  below  ! 
I  shall  not  dare  from  that  dread  place 
To  lift  mine  eyes  to  Jesus'  face, 
Nor  Mary's,  as  she  sits  adored 
At  the  feet  of  Christ  the  Lord. 
Alas  !    December  's  all  too  brief 
For  me  to  hope  to  wipe  away 
The  memory  of  my  sinful  May  !  " 
And  Friar  Jerome  was  full  of  grief 
That  April  evening,  as  he  lay 
On  the  straw  pallet  in  his  cell. 
He  scarcely  heard  the  curfew-bell 
Calling  the  brotherhood  to  prayer; 
But  he  arose,  for  't  was  his  care 


144         FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK. 

Nightly  to  feed  the  hungry  poor 
That  crowded  to  the  Convent  door. 

His  choicest  duty  it  had  been : 
But  this  one  night  it  weighed  him  down. 
"  What  work  for  an  immortal  soul, 
To  feed  and  clothe  some  lazy  clown? 
Is  there  no  action  worth  my  mood, 
No  deed  of  daring,  high  and  pure, 
That  shall,  when  I  am  dead,  endure, 
A  well-spring  of  perpetual  good?" 

And  straight  he  thought  of  those  great  tomes 
With  clamps  of  gold — the  Convent's  boast  - 
How  they  endured,  while  kings  and  realms 
Past  into  darkness  and  were  lost; 
How  they  had  stood  from  age  to  age, 
Clad  in  their  yellow  vellum-mail, 
'Gainst  which  the  Paynim's  godless  rage, 
The  Vandal's  fire,  could  naught  avail : 
Though  heathen  sword-blows  fell  like  hail, 
Though  cities  ran  with  Christian  blood, 
Imperishable  they  had  stood! 
They  did  not  seem  like  books  to  him, 
But  Heroes,  Martyrs,  Saints  —  themselves 
The  things  they  told  of,  not  mere  books 
Ranged  grimly  on  the  oaken  shelves. 

To  those  dim  alcoves,  far  withdrawn, 
He  turned  with  measured  steps  and  slow, 
Trimming  his  lantern  as  he  went; 
And  there,  among  the  shadows,  bent 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK. 


145 


Above  one  ponderous  folio, 
With  whose  miraculous  text  were  blent 
Seraphic  faces  :  Angels,  crowned 
With  rings  of  melting  amethyst; 
Mute,  patient  Martyrs,  cruelly  bound 
To  blazing  fagots ;  here  and  there, 
Some  bold,  serene  Evangelist, 
Or  Mary  in  her  sunny  hair  ; 
And  here  and  there  from  out  the  words 
A  brilliant  tropic  bird  took  flight ; 
And  through  the  margins  many  a  vine 
Went  wandering  —  roses,  red  and  white, 
Tulip,  wind-flower,  and  columbine 
Blossomed.     To  his  believing  mind 
10 


146          FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK. 

These  things  were  real,  and  the  wind, 
Blown  through  the  mullioned  window,  took 
Scent  from  the  lilies  in  the  book. 

"  Santa  Maria  !  "  cried  Friar  Jerome, 
"Whatever  man  illumined  this, 
Though  he  were  steeped  heart-deep  in  sin, 
Was  worthy  of  unending  bliss, 
And  no  doubt  hath  it !     Ah !    dear  Lord, 
Might  I  so  beautify  Thy  Word! 
What  sacristan,  the  convents  through, 
Transcribes  with  such  precision?   who 
Does  such  initials  as  I  do? 
Lo !    I  will  gird  me  to  this  work, 
And  save  me,  ere  the  one  chance  slips. 
On  smooth,  clean  parchment  I  '11  engross 
The  Prophet's  fell  Apocalypse ; 
And  as  I  write  from  day  to  day, 
Perchance  my  sins  will  pass  away." 

So  Friar  Jerome  began  his  Book. 
From  break  of  dawn  till  curfew-chime 
He  bent  above  the  lengthening  page, 
Like  some  rapt  poet  o'er  his  rhyme. 
He  scarcely  paused  to  tell  his  beads, 
Except  at  night  ;  and  then  he  lay 
And  tost,  unrestful,  on  the  straw, 
Impatient  for  the  coming  day  — 
Working  like  one  who  feels,  perchance, 
That,  ere  the  longed-for  goal  be  won, 
Ere  Beauty  bare  her  perfect  breast, 
Black  Death  may  pluck  him  from  the  sun. 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK.          147 

At  intervals  the  busy  brook, 

Turning  the  mill-wheel,  caught  his  ear  ; 

And  through  the  grating  of  the  cell 

He  saw  the  honeysuckles  peer, 

And  knew  't  was  summer,  that  the  sheep 

In  fragrant  pastures  lay  asleep, 

And  felt,  that,  somehow,  God  was  near. 

In  his  green  pulpit  on  the  elm, 

The  robin,  abbot  of  that  wood, 

Held  forth  by  times;  and  Friar  Jerome 

Listened,  and  smiled,  and  understood. 

While  summer  wrapt  the  blissful  land 
What  joy  it  was  to  labor  so, 
To  see  the  long-tressed  Angels  grow 
Beneath  the  cunning  of  his  hand, 
Vignette  and  tail-piece  subtly  wrought ! 
And  little  recked  he  of  the  poor 
That  missed  him  at  the  Convent  door; 
Or,  thinking  of  them,  put  the  thought 
Aside.     "I  feed  the  souls  of  men 
Henceforth,  and  not  their  bodies!"  —  yet 
Their  sharp,  pinched  features,  now  and  then, 
Stole  in  between  him  and  his  Book, 
And  filled  him  with  a  vague  regret. 

Now  on  that  region  fell  a  blight : 
The  corn  grew  cankered  in  its  sheath ; 
And  from  the  verdurous  uplands  rolled 
A  sultry  vapor  fraught  with  death  — 
A  poisonous  mist,  that,  like  a  pall, 
Hung  black  and  stagnant  over  all. 


148          FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK. 

Then  came  the  sickness  —  the  malign, 
Green-spotted   terror  called  the  Pest, 
That  took  the  light  from  loving  eyes, 
And  made  the  young  bride's  gentle  breast 
A  fatal  pillow.     Ah !  the  woe, 
The  crime,  the  madness  that  befell  ! 
In  one  short  night  that  vale  became 
More  foul  than  Dante's  inmost  hell. 
Men  curst  their  wives:   and  mothers  left 
Their  nursing  babes  alone  to  die, 
And  wantoned,  singing,  through  the  streets, 
With  shameless  brow  and  frenzied  eye  ; 
And  senseless  clowns,  not  fearing  God  — 
Such  power  the  spotted  fever  had  - 
Razed  Cragwood  Castle  on  the  hill, 
Pillaged  the  wine-bins,  and  went  mad. 
And  evermore  that  dreadful  pall 
Of  mist  hung  stagnant  over  all : 
By  day,  a  sickly  light  broke  through 
The  heated  fog,  on  town  and  field ; 
By  night,  the  moon,  in  anger,  turned 
Against  the  earth  its  mottled  shield. 

Then  from  the  Convent,  two  and  two, 
The  Prior  chanting  at  their  head, 
The  monks  went  forth  to  shrive  the  sick, 
And  give  the  hungry  grave  its  dead  — 
Only  Jerome,  he  went  not  forth, 
But  hiding  in  his  dusty  nook, 
"  Let  come  what  will,  I  must   illume 
The  last  ten  pages  of  my  Book  !  " 
He  drew  his  stool  before  the  desk, 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL   BOOK.          151 

And  sat  him  down,  distraught  and  wan, 

To  paint  his  daring  masterpiece, 

The  stately  figure  of  Saint  John. 

He  sketched  the  head  with  pious  care, 

Laid  in  the  tint,  when,  powers  of  Grace! 

He  found  a  grinning  Death's-head  there, 

And  not  the  grand  Apostle's  face  ! 

Then  up  he  rose  with  one  long  cry  : 
•  'T  is  Satan's  self  does  this,"  cried  he, 
•Because  I  shut  and  barred  my  heart 
When  Thou  didst  loudest  call  to  me ! 

0  Lord,  Thou  know'st  the  thoughts  of  men, 
Thou  know'st  that  I  did  yearn  to  make 
Thy  Word  more  lovely  to  the  eyes 

Of  sinful  souls,  for  Christ  his  sake ! 
Nathless,  I  leave  the  task  undone : 

1  give  up  all  to  follow  Thee  — 
Even  like  him  who  gave  his  nets 
To  winds  and  waves  by  Galilee  ! " 

Which  said,  he  closed  the  precious  Book 
In  silence,  with  a  reverent  hand ; 
And  drawing  his  cowl  about  his  face 
Went  forth  into  the  Stricken  Land. 
And  there  was  joy  in  heaven  that  day  — 
More  joy  o'er  this  forlorn  old  friar 
Than  over  fifty  sinless  men 
Who  never  struggled  with  desire ! 

What  deeds  he  did  in  that  dark  town, 
What  hearts  he  soothed  with  anguish  toin, 


152          FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK. 

What  weary  ways  of  woe  lie  trod, 
Are  written  in  the  Book  of  God, 
And  shall  be  read  at  Judgment  Morn. 
The  weeks  crept  on,  when,  one  still  day, 
God's  awful  presence  filled  the  sky, 
And  that  black  vapor  floated  by, 
And  lo  !  the  sickness  past  away. 
With  silvery  clang,  by  thorpe  and  town, 
The  bells  made  merry  in  their  spires  : 
O  God !  to  think  the  Pest  is  flown ! 
Men  kissed  each  other  on  the  street, 
And  music  piped  to  dancing  feet 
The  livelong  night,  by  roaring  fires  ! 

Then  Friar  Jerome,  a  wasted  shape  — 
For  he  had  taken  the  Plague  at  last  — 
Kose  up,  and  through  the  happy  town, 
And  through  the  wintry  woodlands,  past 
Into  the  Convent.     What  a  gloom 
Sat  brooding  in  each  desolate  room  ! 
What  silence  in  the  corridor ! 
For  of  that  long,  innumerous  train 
Which  issued  forth  a  month  before 
Scarce  twenty  had  come  back  again  ! 

Counting  his  rosary  step  by  step, 
With  a  forlorn  and  vacant  air, 
Like  some  unshriven  churchyard  thing, 
The  Friar  crawled  up  the  mouldy  stair 
To  his  damp  cell,  that  he  might  look 
Once  more  on  his  beloved  Book. 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL   BOOK.          153 

And  there  it  lay  upon  the  stand, 
Open !  —  he  had  not  left  it  so. 
He  grasped  it,  with  a  cry ;  for,  lo  ! 
He  saw  that  some  angelic  hand, 
While  he  was  gone,  had  finished  it  ! 
There  't  was  complete,  as  he  had  planned  ; 
There,  at  the  end,  stood  jFmte,  writ 
And  gilded  as  no  man  could  do  — 
Not  even  that  pious  anchoret, 
Bilfrid,  the  wonderful,  nor  yet 
The  miniatore  Ethelwold, 
Nor  Durham's  Bishop,  who  of  old 
(England  still  hoards  the  priceless  leaves) 
Did  the  Four  Gospels  all  in  gold. 
And  Friar  Jerome  nor  spoke  nor  stirred, 
But,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  that  word, 
He  passed  from  sin  and  want  and  scorn ; 
And  suddenly  the   chapel-bells 
Rang  in  the  holy  Christmas-Morn  ! 

In  those  wild  wars  which  racked  the  land 
Since  then,  and  kingdoms  rent  in  twain, 
The  Friar's  Beautiful  Book  was  lost  — 
That  miracle  of  hand  and  brain  : 
Yet,  though  its  leaves  were  torn  and  tost, 
The  volume  was  not  writ  in  vain ! 


MIANTOWONA. 

i. 

LONG  ere  the  Pale  Face 

Crossed  the  Great  Water, 

Miantowona 

Passed,  with  her  beauty, 

Into  a  legend 

Pure  as  a  wild-flower 

Found  in  a  broken 

Ledge  by  the  seaside. 

Let  us  revere  them  — 
These  wildwood  legends, 
Born  of  the  camp-fire. 
Let  them  be  handed 
Down  to  our  children  — 
Richest  of  heirlooms. 
No  land  may  claim  them  : 
They  are  ours  only, 
Like  our  grand  rivers, 
Like  our  vast  prairies, 
Like  our  dead  heroes. 

n. 

IN  the  pine-forest, 
Guarded  by  shadows, 


MIANTO  WON  A.  155 

Lieth  the  haunted 
Pond  of  the  Red  Men. 
Ringed  by  the  emerald 
Mountains,  it  lies  there 
Like  an  untarnished 
Buckler  of  silver, 
Dropped  in  that  valley 
By  the  Great  Spirit ! 
Weird  are  the  figures 
Traced  on  its  margins  — 
Vine-work  and  leaf-work, 
Down-drooping  fuchsias, 
Knots  of  sword-grasses, 
Moonlight  and  starlight, 
Clouds  scudding  northward. 
Sometimes  an  eagle 
Flutters  across  it ; 
Sometimes  a  single 
Star  on  its  bosom 
Nestles  till  morning. 

Far  in  the  ages, 

Miantowona, 

Rose  of  the  Hurons, 

Came  to  these  waters. 

Where  the  dank  greensward 

Slopes  to  the  pebbles, 

Miantowona 

Sat  in  her  anguish. 

Ice  to  her  maidens, 

Ice  to  the  chieftains, 

Fire  to  her  lover ! 


156  MIANTO  WON  A. 

Here  he  had  won  her, 
Here  they  had  parted, 
Here  could  her  tears  flow. 
With  unwet  eyelash, 
Miantowona 
Nursed  her  old  father, 
Gray-eyed  Tawanda, 
Oldest  of  Hurons, 
Soothed  his  complainings, 
Smiled  when  he  chid  her 
Vaguely  for  nothing  — 
He  was  so  weak  now, 
Like  a  shrunk  cedar 
White  with  the  hoar-frost. 
Sometimes  she  gently 
Linked  arms  with  maidens^ 
Joined  in  their  dances: 
Not  with  her  people, 
Not  in  the  wigwam, 
Wept  for  her  lover. 

Ah!    who  was  like  him? 
Fleet  as  an  arrow, 
Strong  as  a  bison, 
Lithe  as  a  panther, 
Soft  as  the  south-wind, 
Who  was  like  Wawah? 
There  is  one  other 
Stronger  and  fleeter, 
Bearing  no  wampum, 
Wearing  no  war-paint, 
Rider  of  councils, 


MIANTO  WON  A.  157 

Chief  of  the  war-path  — 
Who  can  gainsay  him, 
Who  can  defy  him? 
His  is  the  lightning, 
His  is  the  whirlwind, 
Let  us  be  humble, 
We  are  but  ashes  — 
'T  is  the  Great  Spirit ! 

Ever  at  nightfall 

Miantowona 

Strayed  from  the  lodges, 

Passed  through  the  shadows 

Into  the  forest: 

There  by  the  pond-side 

Spread  her  black  tresses 

Over  her  forehead. 

Sad  is  the  loon's  cry 

Heard  in  the  twilight ; 

Sad  is  the  night-wind, 

Moaning  and  moaning; 

Sadder  the  stifled 

Sob  of  a  widow. 

Low  on  the  pebbles 
Murmured  the  water : 
Often  she  fancied 
It  was  young  Wawah 
Playing  the  reed-flute. 
Sometimes  a  dry  branch 
Snapped  in  the  forest : 
Then  she  rose,  startled, 


158  MIANTO  WONA. 

Ruddy  as  sunrise, 

Warm  for  his  coming ! 

But  when  he  came  not, 

Back  through  the  darkness, 

Half  broken-hearted, 

Miantowona 

Went  to  her  people. 

When  an  old  oak  dies, 
First  't  is  the  tree-tops, 
Then  the  low  branches, 
Then  the  gaunt  stem  goes: 
So  feU  Tawanda, 
Oldest  of  Hurons, 
Chief  of  the  chieftains. 

Miantowona 
Wept  not,  but  softly 
Closed  the  sad  eyelids  ; 
With  her  own  fingers 
Fastened  the  deer-skin 
Over  his  shoulders  ; 
Then  laid  beside  him 
Ash-bow  and   arrows, 
Pipe-bowl  and  wampum, 
Dried  corn  and  bear-meat  — 
All  that  was   needful 
On  the  long  journey. 
Thus  old  Tawanda, 
Went  to  the  hunting 
Grounds  of  the  Red  Man. 


MIANTOWONA.  159 

Then,  as  the  dirges 
Rose  from  the  village, 
Miantowona 

Stole  from  the  mourners, 
Stole  through  the  cornfields, 
Passed  like  a  phantom 
Into  the  shadows 
Through  the  pine-forest. 

One  who  had  watched  her  — 
It  was  Nahoho, 
Loving  her  vainly  — 
Saw,  as  she  passed  him, 
That  in  her  features 
Made  his  stout  heart  quail. 
He  could  but  follow. 
Quick  were  her  footsteps, 
Light  as  a  snow-flake, 
Leaving  no  traces 
On  the  white    clover. 

Like  a  trained  runner, 
Winner  of  prizes, 
Into  the  woodlands 
Plunged  the  young  chieftain. 
Once  he  abruptly 
Halted,  and  listened  ; 
Then  he  sped  forward 
Faster  and  faster 
Toward  the  bright  water. 
Breathless  he  reached  it. 
Why  did  he  crouch  then, 


160 


MIANTO  WON  A. 

Stark  as  a  statue? 
What  did  he  see  there 


Could  so  appall  him? 
Only  a  circle 
Swiftly   expanding, 
Fading  before  him ; 
But,  as  he  watched  it, 
Up  from  the  centre, 
Slowly,  superbly 
Rose  a  Pond-Lily, 

One  cry  of  wonder, 
Shrill  as  the  loon's  call, 
Rang  through  the  forest, 
Startling  the  silence, 
Startling  the  mourners 


MIANTO  WONA.  161 

Chanting  the  death-song. 
Forth  from  the  village, 
Flocking  together 
Came  all  the  Hurons  — 
Striplings  and  warriors, 
Maidens  and  old  men, 
Squaws  with  pappooses. 
No  word  was  spoken  : 
There  stood  the  Hurons 
On  the  dank  greensward, 
With  their  swart  faces 
Bowed  in  the  twilight. 
What  did  they  see  there  ? 
Only  a  Lily 
Rocked  on  the  azure 
Breast  of  the  water. 

Then  they  turned  sadly 

Each  to  the  other, 

Tenderly  murmuring, 
"  Miantowona !  " 

Soft  as  the  dew  falls 

Down  through  the  midnight. 

Cleaving  the  starlight, 

Echo  repeated, 
"  Miantowona !  " 
11 


THE  GUERDON. 

Vedder,  this  legend  if  it  had  its  due, 
Would  not  be  sung  by  me,  but  told  by  you 
In  colors  such  as  Tintoretto  knew. 

SOOTHED  by  the  fountain's  drowsy  murmuring  — 
Or  was  it  by  the  west-wind's  indolent  wing  ?  — 
The  grim  court-poet  fell  asleep  one  day 
In  the   lords'    chamber,  when    chance    brought   that 

way 

The  Princess  Margaret  with  a  merry  train 
Of  damozels  and  ladies  —  flippant,  vain 
Court-butterflies  —  midst  whom  fair  Margaret 
Swayed  like  a  rathe  and  slender  lily  set 
In  rustling  leaves,  for  all  her  drapery 
Was  green  and  gold,   and  lovely  as  could  be. 

Midway  in  hall  the  fountain  rose  and  fell, 
Filling  a  listless  Naiad's  outstretched  shell 
And  weaving  rainbows  in  the  shifting  light. 
Upon  the  carven  friezes,  left  and  right, 
Was  pictured  Pan  asleep  beside  his  reed. 
In  this  place  all  things  seemed  asleep,  indeed  — 
The  hook-billed  parrot  on  his  pendent  ring, 
Sitting  high-shouldered,  half  forgot  to  swing  ; 
The  wind  scarce  stirred  the  hangings  at  the  door, 


THE   GUERDON.  163 

And  from  the  silken  arras  evermore 

Yawned  drowsy  dwarfs  with  satyr's  face  and  hoof. 

A  forest  of  gold  pillars  propped  the  roof, 
And  like  one  slim  gold  pillar  overthrown, 
The  sunlight  through  a  great  stained  window  shone 
And  lay  across  the  body  of  Alain. 
You  would   have   thought,  perchance,  the   man  was 

slain : 

As  if  the  checkered  column  in  its  fall 
Had  caught  and  crushed  him,  he  lay  dead  to  all. 
The  parrot's  gray  bead  eye  as  good  as  said, 
Unclosing  viciously,  "  The  clown  is  dead." 
A  dragon-fly  in  narrowing  circles  neared, 
And  lit,  secure,  upon  the  dead  man's  beard, 
Then  spread  its  iris  vans  in  quick  dismay, 
And  into  the  blue  summer  sped  away! 

Little  was  his  of  outward  grace  to  win 
The  eyes  of  maids,  but  white  the  soul  within. 
Misshaped,  and  hideous  to  look  upon 
Was  this  man,  dreaming  in  the  noontide  sun, 
With  sunken  eyes  and  winter-whitened  hair, 
And   sallow  cheeks   deep   seamed  with  thought  and 

care. 

And  so  the  laughing  ladies  of  the  court, 
Coming  upon  him  suddenly,  stopped  short, 
And  shrunk  together  with  a  nameless  dread; 
Some,  but  fear   held   them,  would  have  turned  and 

fled, 

Seeing  the  uncouth  figure  lying  there. 
But  Princess  Margaret,  with  her  heavy  hair 


164  THE   GUERDON. 

From  out  its  diamond  fillet  rippling  down, 
Slipped    from    the    group,   and    plucking    back   her 

gown 

With  white  left  hand,  stole  softly  to  his  side  — 
The  fair  court  gossips  staring,  curious-eyed, 
Half  mockingly.     A  little  while  she   stood, 
Finger  on  lip  ;  then,  with  the  agile  blood 
Climbing  her  cheek,  and  silken  lashes  wet  — 
She  scarce  knew  what  vague  pity  or  regret 
Wet  them  —  she  stooped,  and  for  a  moment's  space 
Her  golden  tresses  touched  the  sleeper's  face. 
Then  she  stood  straight,  as  lily  on  its  stem, 
But  hearing  her  ladies  titter,  turned  on  them 
Her  great    queen's    eyes,  grown  black  with  scornful 

frown  — 

Great  eyes  that  looked  the  shallow  women  down. 
"  Nay,  not  for  love  "  —  one  rosy  palm  she  laid 
Softly  against  her  bosom  —  "as  I  'm  a  maid ! 
Full  well  I  know  what  cruel  things  you  say 
Of  this  and  that,  but  hold  your  peace  to-day. 
I  pray  you  think  no  evil  thing  of  this. 
Nay,  not  for  love's  sake  did  I  give  the  kiss, 
Not  for  his  beauty  who  's  nor  fair  nor  young, 
But  for  the  songs  which  those  mute  lips  have  sung !  ' 

That  was  a  right  brave  princess,  one,  I  hold, 
Worthy  to  wear  a  crown  of  beaten  gold. 


TITA'S  TEARS. 

A    FANTASY. 

A  CERTAIN  man  of  Ischia  —  it  is  thus 
The  story  runs  —  one  Lydus  Claudius, 
After  a  life  of  threescore  years  and  ten, 
Passed  suddenly  from  out  the  world  of  men 
Into  the  world  of  shadows. 

In  a  vale 

Where  shoals  of  spirits  against  the  moonlight  pale 
Surged  ever  upward,  in  a  wan-lit  place 
Near  heaven,  he  met  a  Presence  face  to  face  — 
A  figure  like  a  carving  on  a  spire, 
Shrouded  in  wings  and  with  a  fillet  of  fire 
About  the  brows  —  who  stayed  him  there,  and  said : 
"  This  the  gods  grant  to  thee,  O  newly  dead  ! 
Whatever  thing  on  earth  thou  holdest  dear 
Shall,  at  thy  bidding,  be  transported  here, 
Save  wife  or  child,  or  any  living  thing." 
Then  straightway  Claudius  fell  to  wondering 
What  he  should  wish  for.     Having   heaven  at  hand, 
His  wants  were  few,  as  you  can  understand. 
Riches  and  titles,  matters  dear  to  us, 
To  him,  of  course,  were  now  superfluous : 
But  Tita,  small  brown  Tita,  his  young  wife, 
A  two  weeks'  bride  when  he  took  leave  of   life, 


166  TITA'S  TEARS. 

What  would  become  of  her  without  his  care? 

Tita,  so  rich,  so  thoughtless,  and  so  fair  ! 

At  present  crushed  with  sorrow,  to  be  sure  — 

But  by  and  by  ?     What  earthly  griefs  endure  ? 

They  pass  like  joys.     A  year,  three  years  at  most, 

And  would  she  mourn  her  lord,  so  quickly  lost  ? 

With  fine,  prophetic  ear,  he  heard  afar 

The  tinkling  of  some  horrible  guitar 

Under  her  balcony.     "Such  thing  could  be," 

Sighed  Claudius ;  "  I  would  she  were  with  me, 

Safe  from  all  harm."     But  as  that  wish  was  vain, 

He  let  it  drift  from   out  his  troubled  brain 

(His  highly  trained  austerity  was  such 

That  self-denial  never  cost  him  much), 

And  strove  to  think  what  object  he  might  name 

Most  closely  linked  with  the  bereaved  dame. 

Her  wedding  ring  ?  —  't  would  be  too  small  to  wear ; 

Perhaps  a  ringlet  of  her  raven  hair? 

If  not,  her  portrait,  done  in  cameo, 

Or  on  a  background  of  pale  gold?     But  no, 

Such  trifles  jarred  with  his  severity. 

At  length  he  thought  :     "  The  thing  most  meet  for 

me 

Would  be  that  antique  flask  wherein  my  bride 
Let  fall  her  heavy  tears  the   night  I  died." 
(It  was  a  custom  of  that  simple  day 
To  have  one's  tears  sealed  up  and  laid  away, 
As  everlasting  tokens  of   regret  — 
They  find  the  bottles  in  Greek  ruins  yet.) 
For  this  he  wished,  then. 

Swifter  than  a  thought 
The  Presence  vanished,  and  the  flask  was  brought  — 


THE  LADY  OF  CASTELNORE.  167 

Slender,  bell-mouthed,  and  painted  all  around 
With  jet-black  tulips  on  a  saffron  ground; 
A  tiny  jar,  of  porcelain  if  you  will, 
Which  twenty  tears  would  rather  more  than  fill. 
With  careful  fingers  Claudius  broke  the  seal 
When,  suddenly,  a  well-known  merry  peal 
Of  laughter  leapt  from  out  the  vial's  throat, 
And  died,  as  dies  the  wood-bird's  distant  note. 
Claudius  stared;   then,  struck  with  strangest  fears, 
Reversed  the  flask  — 

Alas,  for  Tita's  tears! 


THE  LADY  OF  CASTELNORE. 

A.    D.    1700. 
1. 

BRETAGKE  had  not  her  peer.  In  the  Province  far 
or  near 

There  were  never  such  brown  tresses,  such  a  fault 
less  hand ; 

She  had  youth,  and  she  had  gold,  she  had  jewels  all 
untold, 

And   many  a    lover   bold   wooed    the    Lady  of   the 
Land. 

2. 

But  she,  with  queenliest  grace,  bent  low  her  pallid 
face, 

And  "  Woo  me  not,  for  Jesus'  sake,  fair  gentle 
men,"  she  said. 


168  THE  LADY  OF  CASTELNORE. 

If  they  woo'd,  then  —  with  a  frown  she  would  strike 

their  passion  down : 
She  might  have  wed  a   crown  to  the  ringlets  on  her 

head. 

3. 

From  the  dizzy  castle-tips,  hour  by  hour  she  watched 
the  ships, 

Like  sheeted  phantoms  coming  and  going  evermore, 

While  the  twilight  settled  down  on  the  sleepy  sea 
port  town, 

On  the  gables  peaked  and  brown,  that  had  sheltered 
kings  of  yore. 


Dusky  belts  of  cedar-wood  partly  claspt  the  widen 
ing  flood; 

Like  a  knot  of  daisies  lay  the  hamlets  on  the  hill ; 

In  the  hostelry  below  sparks  of  light  would  come 
and  go, 

And  faint  voices,  strangely  low,  from  the  garrulous 
old  mill. 

5. 

Here  the  land  in  grassy  swells   gently  broke;  there 

sunk  in  dells 
With  mosses  green  and  purple,  and  prongs  of  rock 

and  peat ; 
Here,  in  statue-like  repose,  an  old  wrinkled  mountain 

rose, 
With  its   hoary  head  in  snows,  and  wild-roses  at  its 

feet. 


THE  LADY  OF  CASTELNORE. 


169 


6. 

And  so  oft  she  sat  alone  in  the  turret  of  gray  stone, 
And   looked    across   the   moorland,  so   woful,   to   the 

sea, 
That   there   grew  a   village-cry,   how   her    cheek    did 

lose  its  dye, 
As  a  ship,  once,   sailing  by,   faded  on  the   sapphire 

lea. 


7. 

Her  few  walks  led  all  one  way,  and  all  ended  at  the 

gray 
And  ragged,  jagged  rocks  that  fringe  the  lonely  beach ; 


170  THE  LADY  OF  CASTELNOEE. 

There    she  would    stand,  the  Sweet !    with   the  white 

surf  at  her  feet, 
While  above  her  wheeled  the  fleet  sparrow-hawk  with 

startling  screech. 

8. 

And  she  ever  loved  the  sea,  with  its  haunting  mys 
tery, 

Its  whispering  weird  voices,  its  never-ceasing  roar: 

And  't  was  well  that,  when  she  died,  they  made  her 
a  grave  beside 

The  blue  pulses  of  the  tide,  by  the  towers  of  Castel- 
nore. 

9. 

Now,  one  chill  November  morn,  many  russet  autumns 

gone, 
A  strange  ship  with  folded  wings  lay  dozing  off  the 

lea; 
It  had  lain   throughout   the   night  with   its  wings  of 

murky  white 
Folded,    after   weary   flight  —  the  worn   nursling   of 

the  sea. 

10. 

Crowds  of   peasants    flocked    the   sands ;    there    were 

tears  and  clasping  hands; 
And    a    sailor   from    the    ship    stalked   through   the 

church-yard  gate. 
Then    amid    the   grass   that  crept,  fading,  over  her 

who  slept, 
How  he  hid  his  face  and  wept,  crying.     Late,  alas  ! 

too  late  ! 


THE  TRAGEDY.  171 

11. 

And  they  called  her  cold.  God  knows  .  .  .  Under 
neath  the  winter  snows 

The  invisible  hearts  of  flowers  grow  ripe  for  blossom 
ing ! 

And  the  lives  that  look  so  cold,  if  their  stories  could 
be  told, 

Would  seem  cast  in  gentler  mould,  would  seem  full 
of  love  and  spring. 


THE  TRAGEDY. 

LA     DAME     AUX   CAMELIAS. 

La  Dame  aux   Camelias  — 

I  think  that  was  the  play ; 
The  house  was  packed  from  pit  to  dome 

With  the  gallant  and  the  gay, 
Who  had  come  to  see  the  Tragedy, 

And  while  the  hours  away. 

There  was  the  ruined  Spendthrift, 

And  Beauty  in  her  prime  ; 
There  was  the  grave  Historian, 

And  there  the  man  of  Rhyme, 
And  the  surly  Critic,  front  to  front, 

To  see  the  play  of  crime. 

And  there  was  pompous  Ignorance, 
And  Vice  in  flowers  and  lace; 


172  THE   TRAGEDY. 

Sir  Croesus  and  Sir  Pandarus  — 

And  the  music  played  apace. 
But  of  all  that  crowd  I  only  saw 

A  single,  single  face ! 

That  of  a  girl  whom  I  had  known 

In  the  summers  long  ago, 
When  her  breath  was  like  the  new-mown  hay, 

Or  the  sweetest  flowers  that  grow  ; 
When  her  heart  was  light,  and  her  soul  was  white 

As  the  winter's  driven  snow. 

And  there  she  sat  with  her  great  brown  eyes, 

They  wore  a  troubled  look ; 
And  I  read  the  history  of  her  life 

As  it  were  an  open  book ; 
And  saw  her  Soul,  like  a  slimy  thing 

In  the  bottom  of  a  brook. 

There  she  sat  in  her  rustling  silk, 

With  diamonds  on  her  wrist, 
And  on  her  brow  a  gleaming  thread 

Of  pearl  and  amethyst. 
"  A  cheat,  a  gilded  grief !  "  I  said, 

And  my  eyes  were  filled  with  mist. 

I  could  not  see  the  players  play : 

I  heard  the  music  moan ; 
It  moaned  like  a  dismal  autumn  wind. 

That  dies  in  the  woods  alone ; 
And  when  it  stopped  I  heard  it  still  — 

The  mournful  monotone  ! 


THE   TRAGEDY.  173 

What  if  the  Count  were  true  or  false  ? 

I  did  not  care,  not  I ; 
What  if  Camille  for  Armand  died? 

I  did  not  see  her  die. 
There  sat  a  woman  opposite 

With  piteous  lip  and  eye ! 

The  great  green  curtain  fell  on  all, 

On  laugh,  and  wine,  and  woe, 
Just  as  death  some  day  will  fall 

'Twixt  us  and  life,  I  know  ! 
The  play  was  done,  the  bitter  play, 

And  the  people  turned  to  go. 

And  did  they  see  the  Tragedy  ? 

They  saw  the  painted  scene ; 
They  saw  Armand,  the  jealous  fool, 

And  the  sick  Parisian  queen  : 
But  they  did  not  see  the  Tragedy  — 

The  one  I  saw,  I  mean  ! 

They  did  not  see  that  cold-cut  face, 

That  furtive  look  of  care ; 
Or,  seeing  her  jewels,  only  said, 

"  The  lady  's  rich  and  fair." 
But  I  tell  you,  't  was  the  Play  of  Life, 

And  that  woman  played  Despair! 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI. 

I. 

LOOKING  at  Fra  Gervasio, 
Wrinkled  and  withered  and  old  and  gray, 
A  dry  Franciscan  from  crown  to  toe, 
You  would  never  imagine,  by  any  chance, 
That,  in  the  convent  garden  one  day, 
He  spun  this  thread  of  golden  romance. 

Romance  to  me,  but  to  him,  indeed, 

'T  was  a  matter  that  did  not  hold  a  doubt ; 

A  miracle,  nothing  more  nor  less. 

Did  I  think  it  strange  that,  in  our  need, 

Leaning  from  Heaven  to  our  distress, 

The  Virgin  brought  such  things  about  — 

Gave  mute  things  speech,  made  dead  things  move  ? 

Mother  of  Mercy,  Lady  of  Love ! 

Besides,  I  might,  if  I  wished,  behold 

The  Bambino's  self  in  his  cloth  of  gold 

And  silver  tissue,  lying  in  state 

In  the  Sacristy.     Would  the  signor  wait  ? 

Whoever  will  go  to  Rome  may  see, 

In  the  chapel  of  the  Sacristy 

Of  Ara-Coeli,  the  Sainted  Child  — 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-C(ELL  175 

Garnished  from  throat  to  foot  with  rings 

And  brooches  and  precious  offerings, 

And  its  little  nose  kissed  quite  away 

By  dying  lips.     At  Epiphany, 

If  the  holy  winter  day  prove  mild, 

It  is  shown  to  the  wondering,  gaping  crowd 

On  the  church's  steps  —  held  high  aloft  — 

While  every  sinful  head  is  bowed, 

And  the  music  plays,  and  the  censers'  soft 

White  breath  ascends  like  silent  prayer. 


Many  a  beggar  kneeling  there, 
Tattered  and  hungry,  without  a  home, 
Would  not  envy  the  Pope  of  Rome, 
If  he,  the  beggar,  had  half  the  care 
Bestowed  on  Mm  that  falls  to  the  share 
Of  yonder  Image  —  for  you  must  know 
It  has  its  minions  to  come  and  go, 
Its  perfumed  chamber,  remote  and  still, 


176  THE  LEGEND   OF  ARA-C(ELI. 

Its  silken  couch,  and  its  jewelled  throne, 

And  a  special  carriage  of  its  own 

To  take  the  air  in,  when  it  will ; 

And  though  it   may  neither  drink  nor  eat, 

By  a  nod  to  its  ghostly  seneschal 

It  could  have  of   the  choicest  wine  and  meat. 

Often  some  princess,  brown  and  tall, 

Comes,  and  unclasping  from  her  arm 

The  glittering  bracelet,  leaves  it,  warm 

With  her  throbbing  pulse,  at  the  Baby's  feet. 

Ah,  he  is  loved  by  high  and  low, 

Adored  alike  by  simple  and  wise. 

The  people  kneel  to  him  in  the  street. 

What  a  felicitous  lot  is  his  — 

To  lie  in  the  light  of  ladies'  eyes, 

Petted  and  pampered,  and  never  to  know 

The  want  of  a  dozen  soldi  or  so  ! 

And  what  does  he  do  for  all  of  this  ? 

What  does  the  little  Bambino  do  ? 

It  cures  the  sick,  and,  in  fact,  't  is  said 

Can  almost  bring  life  back  to  the  dead. 

Who  doubts  it  ?     Not  Fra  Gervasio. 

When  one  falls  ill,  it  is  left  alone 

For  a  while  with  one  —  and  the  fever  's  gone  ! 

At  least,  't  was  once  so ;  but  to-day 
It  is  never   permitted,  unattended 
By  monk  or  priest,  to  work   its  lure 
At  sick  folks'  beds  —  all  that  was  ended 
By  one  poor  soul  whose  feeble  clay 
Satan  tempted  and  made  secure. 


THE  LEGEND   OF  ARA-CCELI.  177 

It  was  touching  this  very  point  the  friar 

Told  me  the  legend,  that  afternoon, 

In  the  cloisteral  garden  all  on  fire 

With  scarlet  poppies  and  golden  stalks. 

Here  and  there  on  the  sunny  walks, 

Startled  by  some  slight  sound  we  made, 

A  lizard,  awaking  from  its  swoon, 

Shot  like  an  arrow  into  the  shade. 

I  can  hear  the  fountain's  languorous  tune, 

(How  it  comes  back,  that  hour  in  June 

When  just  to  exist  was  joy  enough!) 

I  can  see  the  olives,  silvery-gray, 

The  carven  masonry  rich  with  stains, 

The  gothic  windows  with  lead-set  panes, 

The  flag-paved  cortile,  the  convent  grates, 

And  Fra  Gervasio  holding  his  snuff 

In  a  squirrel-like  meditative  way 

'Twixt  finger  and  thumb.      But  the  Legend  waits. 


n. 

It  was  long  ago  (so  long  ago 

That  Fra  Gervasio  did  not  know 

What  year  of  our  Lord),  there  came  to  Rome 

Across  the  Campagna's  flaming  red, 

A  certain  Filippo  and  his  wife  — 

Peasants,  and  very  newly  wed. 

In  the  happy  spring  and  blossom   of   life, 

When  the  light  heart  chirrups  to  lovers'  calls, 

These  two,  like  a  pair  of  birds,  had  come 

And  built  their  nest  'gainst  the  city's  walls. 

* 

12 


178  THE  LEGEND   OF  ARA-C(ELI. 

He,  with  his  scanty  garden-plots, 

Raised  flowers  and  fruit  for  the  market-place, 

Where  she,  with  her  pensile,  flower-like  face  — 

Own  sister  to  her  forget-me-nots  — 

Played  merchant:  and  so  they  thrived  apace, 

In  humble  content,  with  humble  cares 

And  modest  longings,  till,  unawares, 

Sorrow  crept  on  them  ;  for  to  their  nest 

Had  come  no  little  ones,  and  at  last, 

When  six  or  seven   summers  had  past, 

Seeing  no  baby  at  her  breast, 

The  husband  brooded,  and  then  grew  cold ; 

Scolded  and  fretted  over  this  — 

Who  would  tend  them  when  they  were  old, 

And  palsied,  maybe,  sitting  alone, 

Hungry,  beside  the  cold  hearth-stone? 

Not  to  have  children,  like  the  rest ! 

It  cankered  the  very  heart  of  bliss. 

Then  he  fell  into  indolent  ways, 

Neglecting  the  garden  for  days  and  days, 

Playing  at  mom,  drinking  wine, 

With  this  and  that  one  —  letting  the  vine 

Run  riot  and  die  for  want  of  care, 

And  the  choke-weeds  gather;  for  it  was  spring, 

When  everything  needed  nurturing. 

But  he  would  drowse  for  hours  in  the  sun, 

Or  sit  on  the  broken  step  by  the  shed, 

Like  a  man  whose  honest  toil  is  done, 

Sullen,  with  never  a  word  to  spare, 

Or  a  word  that  were  better  all  unsaid. 


THE  LEGEND   OF  ARA-CCELL  179 

And  Nina,  so  light  of  thought  before, 

Singing  about  the  cottage  door 

In  her  mountain  dialect  —  sang  no  more ; 

But  came  and  went,  sad-faced  and  shy, 

Wishing,  at  times,  that  she  might  die, 

Brooding  and  fretting  in  her  turn. 

Often,  in  passing  along  the  street, 

Her  basket  of  flowers  poised,  peasant-wise, 

On  a  lustrous  braided  coil  of  her  hair, 

She  would  halt,  and  her  dusky  cheek  would  burn 

Like  a  poppy,  beholding  at  her  feet 

Some  stray  little  urchin,  dirty  and  bare. 

And  sudden  tears  would  spring  to  her  eyes 

That  the  tiny  waif  was  not  her  own, 

To  fondle,  and  kiss,  and  teach  to  pray. 

Then  she  passed  onward,  making  moan. 

Sometimes  she  would  stand  in  the  sunny  square, 

Like  a  slim  bronze  statue  of  Despair, 

Watching  the  children  at  their  play. 

In  the  broad  piazza  was  a  shrine, 

With  Our  Lady  holding  on  her  knee 

A  small  nude  waxen  effigy. 

Nina  passed  by  it  every  day, 

And  morn  and  even,  in  rain  or  shine, 

Repeated  an  ave  there.     "Divine 

Mother,"  she  'd  cry,  as  she  turned  away, 

Sitting  in  paradise,  undefiled, 

O,  have  pity  on  my  distress  !  " 

Then  glancing  back  at  the  rosy  Child, 

She  would  cry  to  it,  in  her  helplessness, 

Pray  her  to  send  the  like  to  me ! " 


180  THE  LEGEND   OF  ARA-CCELL 

Now  once  as  she  knelt  before  the  saint, 

Lifting  her  hands  in  silent  pain, 

She  paled,  and  her   heavy  heart  grew  faint 

At  a  thought  which  flashed  across  her  brain  — 

The  blinding  thought  that,  perhaps  if  she 

Had  lived  in  the  world's  miraculous  morn, 

God  might  have  chosen  her  to  be 

The  mother  —  O  heavenly  ecstasy !  — 

Of  the  little  babe  in  the  manger  born ! 

She,  too,  was  a  peasant  girl,  like  her, 

The  wife  of  the  lowly  carpenter! 

Like  Joseph's  wife,  a  peasant  girl ! 

Her  strange  little  head  was  in  a  whirl 

As  she  rose  from  her  knees  to  wander  home, 

Leaving  her  basket  at  the  shrine ; 

So  dazed  was  she,  she  scarcely  knew 

The  old  familiar  streets  of  Rome, 

Nor  whither  she  wished  to  go,  in  fine  ; 

But  wandered  on,  now  crept,  now  flew, 

In  the  gathering  twilight,  till  she  came 

Breathless,  bereft  of  sense  and  sight, 

To  the  gloomy  Arch  of  Constantine, 

And  there  they  found  her,  late  that  night, 

With  her  cheeks  like    snow  and  her  lips  like  flame! 

Many  a  time  from  day  to  day, 

She  heard,  as  if  in  a  troubled  dream, 

Footsteps  around  her,  and  some  one  saying  — 

Was  it  Filippo?—  "Is  she  dead?" 

Then  it  was  some  one  near  her  praying, 

And  she  was  drifting  —  drifting  away 


THE  LEGEND   OF  ARA-CCELI.  181 

From  saints  and  martyrs  in  endless  glory  ! 
She  seemed  to  be  floating  down  a  stream, 
Yet  knew  she  was  lying  in  her  bed. 
The  fancy  held  her  that  she  had  died, 
And  this  was  her  soul  in  purgatory, 
Until,  one  morning,  two  holy  men 
From  the  convent  came,  and  laid  at  her  side 
The  Bambino.     Blessed  Virgin !    then 
Nina  looked  up,  and  laughed,  and  wept, 
And  folded  it  close  to  her  heart,  and  slept. 

Slept  such  a  soft,  refreshing  sleep, 

That  when  she  awoke  her  eyes  had  taken 

The  hyaline  lustre,  dewy,  deep, 

Of  violets  when  they  first  awaken  ; 

And  the  half-unravelled,  fragile  thread 

Of  life  was  knitted  together  again. 

But  she  shrunk  with  sudden,  strange  new  pain, 

And  seemed  to  droop  like  a  flower,  the  day 

The  Capuchins  came,  with  solemn  tread, 

To  carry  the  Miracle  Child  away ! 

in. 

Ere  spring  in  the  heart  of  pansies  burned, 
Or  the  buttercup  had  loosed  its  gold, 
Nina  was  busy  as  ever  of  old 
With  fireside  cares  ;  but  was  not  the  same, 
For  from  the  hour  when  she  had  turned 
To  clasp  the  Image  the  fathers  brought 
To  her  dying-bed,  a  single  thought 
Had  taken  possession  of  her  brain : 
A  purpose,  as  steady  as  the  flame 


182  THE  LEGEND   OF  ARA-CCELI. 

Of  a  lamp  in  some  cathedral  crypt, 
Had  lighted  her  on  her  bed  of  pain  ; 
The  thirst  and  the  fever,  they  had  slipt 
Away  like  visions,  but  this  had  stayed  — 
To  have  the  Bambino  brought  again, 
To  have  it,  and  keep  it  for  her  own  ! 
That  was  the  secret  dream  which  made 
Life  for  her  now  —  in  the  streets,  alone, 
At  night,  and  morning,  and  when  she  prayed. 

How  should  she  wrest  it  from  the  hand 

Of  the  jealous  Church?     How  keep  the  Child? 

Flee  with  it  into  some  distant  land  — 

Like  mother  Mary  from  Herod's  ire  ? 

Ah,  well,  she  knew  not;  she  only  knew 

It  was  written  down  in  the  Book  of  Fate 

That  she  should  have  her  heart's  desire, 

And  very  soon  now,  for  of  late, 

In  a  dream,  the  little  thing  had  smiled 

Up  in  her  face,  with  one  eye's  blue 

Peering  from  underneath  her  breast, 

Which  the  baby  fingers  had  softly  prest 

Aside,  to  look  at  her  !     Holy  one ! 

But  that  should  happen  ere  all  was  done. 

Lying  dark  in  the  woman's  mind  — 
Unknown,  like  a  seed  in  fallow  ground  — 
Was  the  germ  of  a  plan,  confused  and  blind 
At  first,  but  which,  as  the  weeks  rolled  round, 
Reached  light,  and  flowered,  —  a  subtile  flower, 
Deadly  as  nightshade.     In  that  same  hour 
She  sought  the  husband  and  said  to  him, 


THE  LEGEND   OF  ARA-C(ELI.  183 

With  crafty  tenderness  in  her  eyes 

And  treacherous  archings  of  her  brows, 

Filippo,  mio,  thou  lov'st  me  well  ? 

Truly  ?     Then  get  thee  to  the  house 

Of  the  long-haired  Jew  Ben  Raphaim — 

Seller  of  curious  tapestries, 

(Ah,  he  hath  everything  to  sell  !) 

The  cunning  carver  of  images  — 

And  bid  him  to  carve  thee  to  the  life 

A  bambinetto  like  that  they  gave 

In  my  arms,  to   hold  me  from  the  grave 

When  the  fever  pierced  me  like  a  knife. 

Perhaps,  if  we  set  the  image  there 

By  the  Cross,  the  saints  would  hear  the  prayer 

Which  in  all  these  years  they  have  not  heard." 

Then  the  husband  went,  without  a  word, 

To  the  crowded  Ghetto ;    for  since  the  days 

Of  Nina's  illness,  the  man  had  been 

A  tender  husband  —  with  lover's  ways 

Striving,  as  best  he  might,  to  wean 

The  wife  from  her  sadness,  and  to  bring 

Back  to  the  home  whence  it  had  fled 

The  happiness  of  that  laughing  spring 

When  they,  like  a  pair  of   birds,  had  wed. 

The  image !     It  was  a  woman's  whim  — 

They  were  full  of  whims.     But  what  to  him 

Were  a  dozen  pieces  of  silver  spent, 

If  it  made  her  happy?     And  so  he  went 

To  the  house  of  the  Jew  Ben  Raphaim. 

And  the  carver  heard,  and  bowed,  and  smiled, 

And  fell  to  work  as  if  he  had  known 


184  THE  LEGEND   OF  A R A- C CELL 

The  thought  that  lay  in  the  woman's  brain, 
And  somehow  taken  it  for  his  own : 
For  even  before  the  month  was  flown 
He  had  carved  a  figure  so  like  the  Child 
Of  Ara-Cceli,  you  'd  not  have  told, 
Had  both  been  decked  with  jewel  and  chain 
And  dressed  alike  in  a  dress   of  gold, 
Which  was  the  true  one  of  the  twain. 

When  Nina  beheld  it  first,  her  heart 

Stood  still  with  wonder.     The  skilful  Jew 

Had  given  the  eyes  the  tender  blue, 

And  the  cheeks  the  delicate  olive  hue, 

And  the  form  almost  the  curve  and  line 

Of  the  Image  the  good  Apostle  made 

Immortal  with  his  miraculous  art, 

What  time  the  sculptor1  dreamed  in  the  shade 

Under  the  skies  of  Palestine. 

The  bright  new  coins  that  clinked  in  the  palm 

Of   the  carver  in  wood  were  blurred  and  dim 

Compared  with  the  eyes  that  looked  at  him 

From  the  low  sweet  brows,  so  seeming  calm ; 

Then  he  went  his  way,  and  her  joy  broke  free, 

And  Filippo  smiled  to  hear  Nina  sing 

In  the  old,  old  fashioned  —  carolling 

Like  a  very  thrush,  with  many  a  trill 

And  long-drawn,  flute-like,  honeyed  note, 

Till  the  birds  in  the  farthest  mulberry, 

1  According  to  the  monastic  legend,  the  Santissimo  Bambino  was 
carved  by  a  pilgrim,  out  of  a  tree  which  grew  on  the  Mount  of 
Olives,  and  painted  by  St.  Luke  while  the  pilgrim  was  sleeping  over 
his  work. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI.  185 

Each  outstretching  its  amber  bill, 
Answered  her  with  melodious  throat. 


Thus  sped  two  days  ;    but  on  the  third  * 

Her  singing  ceased,  and  there  came  a  change 

As  of  death  on  Nina ;   her  talk  grew  strange, 

Then  she  sunk  in  a  trance,  nor  spoke  nor  stirred ; 

And  the  husband,  wringing  his  hands,  dismayed, 

Watched  by  the  bed ;  but  she  breathed  no  word 

That  night,  nor  until  the  morning  broke, 

When  she  roused  from  the  spell,  and  feebly  laid 

Her  hand  on  Filippo' s  arm,  and  spoke  : 

Quickly,  Filippo !  get  thee  gone 

To  the  holy  fathers,  and  beg  them  send 

The  Bambino  hither "  —  her  cheeks  were  wan 

And  her  eyes  like  coals  —  "  O,  go,  my  friend, 

Or  all  is  said ! "     Through  the  morning's  gray 

Filippo  hurried,  like  one  distraught, 

To  the  monks,  and  told  his  tale ;  and  they, 

Straight  after  matins,  came  and  brought 

The  Miracle  Child,  and  went  their  way. 

Once  more  in  her  arms  was  the  Infant  laid, 
After  these  weary  months,  once  more! 
Yet  the  woman  seemed  like  a  thing  of  stone 
While  the  dark-robed  fathers  knelt  and  prayed ; 
But  the  instant  the  holy  friars  were  gone 
She  arose,  and  took  the  broidered  gown 
From  the  Baby  Christ,  and  the  yellow  crown 
And  the  votive  brooches  and  rings  it  wore, 
Till  the  little  figure,  so  gay  before 
In  its  princely  apparel,  stood  as  bare 


186  THE  LEGEND   OF  ARA-C(ELT. 

As  your  ungloved  hand.     With  tenderest  care, 
At  her  feet,  'twixt  blanket  and  counterpane, 
She  hid  the  Babe  ;  and  then,  reaching  down 
To  the  coffer  wherein  the  thing  had  lain, 
Drew  forth  Ben  Eaphaini's  manikin 
In  haste,  and  dressed  it  in  robe  and  crown, 
With  lace  and  bawble  and  diamond-pin. 
This  finished,  she  turned  to  stone  again, 
And  lay  as  one  would  have  thought  quite  dead, 
If  it  had  not  been  for  a  spot  of  red 
Upon  either  cheek.     At  the  close  of  day 
The  Capuchins  came,  with  solemn  tread, 
And  carried  the  false  bambino  away ! 

Over  the  vast  Campagna's  plain, 

At  sunset,  a  wind  began  to  blow 

(From  the  Apennines  it  came,  they  say), 

Softly  at  first,  and  then  to  grow  — 

As  the  twilight  gathered  and  hurried  by  — 

To  a  gale,  with  sudden  tumultuous  rain 

And  thunder  muttering  far  away. 

When  the  night  was  come,  from  the  blackened  sky 

The  spear-tongued  lightning  slipped  like  a  snake, 

And  the  great  clouds  clashed,  and  seemed  to  shake 

The  earth  to  its  centre.     Then  swept  down 

Such  a  storm  as  was  never  seen  in  Rome 

By  any  one  living  in  that  day. 

Not  a  soul  dared  venture  from  his  home, 

Not  a  soul  in  all  the  crowded  town. 

Dumb  beasts  dropped  dead,  with  terror,  in  stall  ; 

Great  chimney-stacks  were  overthrown, 

And  about  the  streets  the  tiles  were  blown 


THE  LEGEND   OF  ARA-CCELL  189 

Like  leaves  in  autumn.     A  fearful  night, 
With  ominous  voices  in  the  air ! 
Indeed,  it  seemed  like  the  end  of  all. 
In  the  convent,  the  monks  for  very  fright 
Went  not  to  bed,  but  each  in  his  cell 
Counted  his  beads  by  the  taper's  light, 
Quaking  to  hear  the  dreadful  sounds, 
And  shrivelling  in  the  lightning's  glare. 
It  appeared  as  if  the  rivers  of  Hell 
Had  risen,  and  overleaped  their  bounds. 

In  the  midst  of  this,  at  the  convent  door, 

Above  the  tempest's  raving  and  roar 

Came  a  sudden  knocking !     Mother  of  Grace, 

What  desperate  wretch  was  forced  to  face 

Such  a  night  as  that  was  out-of-doors  ? 

Across  the  echoless,  stony  floors 

Into  the  windy  corridors 

The  monks  came  flocking,  and  down  the  stair, 

Silently,  glancing  each  at  each, 

As  if  they  had  lost  the  power  of  speech. 

Yes  —  it  was  some  one  knocking  there  ! 

And  then  —  strange  thing  !  —  untouched  by  a  soul 

The  bell  of  the  convent  'gan  to  toll ! 

It  curdled  the  blood  beneath  their  hair. 

Reaching  the  court,  the  brothers   stood 

Huddled  together,  pallid  and  mute, 

By  the  massive  door  of  iron-clamped  wood, 

Till  one  old  monk,  more  resolute 

Than  the  others  —  a  man  of  pious  will  - 

Stepped  forth,  and  letting  his  lantern  rest 


190  THE  LEGEND   OF  ARA-C(ELI. 

On  the  pavement,  crouched  upon  his  breast 

And  peeped  through  a  chink  there  was  between 

The  cedar  door  and  the  sunken  sill. 

At  the  instant  a  flash  of  lightning  came, 

Seeming  to  wrap  the  world  in  flame. 

He  gave  but  a  glance,  and  straight  arose 

With  his  face  like  a  corpse's.    What  had  he  seen  ? 

Two  dripping,  little  pink-white  toes! 

Then,  like  a  man  gone  suddenly  wild, 

He  tugged  at  the  bolts,  flung  down  the  chain, 

And  there,  in  the  night  and  wind  and  rain  — 

Shivering,  piteous,  and  forlorn, 

And  naked  as  ever  it  was  born  — 

On  the  threshold  stood  the  SAINTED  CHILD  ! 

"  Since  then,"  said  Fra  Gervasio, 
"  We  have  never  let  the  Bambino  go 

Unwatched  —  no,  not  by  a  prince's  bed. 

Ah,  signor,  it  made  a  dreadful  stir." 
"  And  the  woman  —  Nina  —  what  of  her  ? 

Had  she  no  story?"     He  bowed  his  head, 

And  knitting  his  meagre  fingers,  so  — 
"  In  that  night  of  wind  and  wrath,"  said  he, 
"  There  was  wrought  in  Eome  a  mystery. 

What  know  I,  signor?     They  found  her  dead!" 


JUDITH, 
i. 

JUDITH    IX    THE   TOWER. 

Now  Holofernes  with  his  barbarous  hordes 
Crost  the  Euphrates,  laying  waste  the  land 
To  Esdraelon,  and,  falling  on  the  town 
Of  Bethulia,  stormed  it  night  and  day 
Incessant,  till  within  the  leaguered  walls 
The  boldest  captains  faltered ;  for  at  length 
The  wells  gave  out,  and   then  the  barley  failed, 
And  Famine,  like  a  murderer  masked  and  cloaked, 
Stole  in  among  the  garrison.     The  air 
Was  filled  with  lamentation,  women's  moans 
And  cries  of  children;  and  at  night  there  came 
A  fever,  parching  as  a  fierce  simoom. 
Yet  Holofernes  could  not  batter  down 
The  brazen  gates,  nor  make  a  single  breach 
With  beam  or  catapult  in  those  tough  walls  : 
And  white  with  rage  among  the  tents  he  strode, 
Among  the  squalid  Tartar  tents  he  strode, 
And  curst  the  gods  that  gave  him  not  his  will, 
And  curst  his  captains,  curst  himself,  and  all ; 
Then,  seeing  in  what  strait  the  city  was, 
Withdrew  his  men  hard  by  the  fated  town 


192  JUDITH. 

Amid  the  hills,  and  with  a  grim-set  smile 
Waited,  aloof,  until  the  place  should  fall. 
All  day  the  house-top  lay  in  sweltering  heat, 
All  night  the  watch-fires  flared  upon  the  towers ; 
And  day  and  night  with  Israelitish  spears 
The  ramparts  bristled. 

In  a  tall  square  Tower, 
Full-fronting  on  the  vile  Assyrian  camp, 
Sat  Judith,  pallid  as  the  cloudy  moon 
That  hung  half -faded  in  the  dreary  sky ; 
And  ever  and  anon  she  turned  her  eyes 
To  where,  between  two  vapor-haunted  hills, 
The  dreadful  army  like  a  caldron  seethed. 
She  heard,  far  off,  the  camels'  gurgling  groan, 
The  clank  of  arms,  the  stir  and  buzz  of  camps ; 
Beheld  the  camp-fires,  flaming  fiends  of  night 
That   leapt,   and   with   red    hands    clutched    at   the 

dark  ; 

And  now  and  then,  as  some  mailed  warrior  stalked 
Athwart  the  fires,  she  saw  his  armor  gleam. 
Beneath  her  stretched  the  temples    and  the  tombs, 
The  city  sickening  of  its  own  thick  breath, 
And  over  all  the  sleepless  Pleiades. 

A  star-like  face,  with  floating  clouds  of  hair  — 
Merari's  daughter,  dead  Manasses'  wife, 
Who  (since  the  barley-harvest  when  he  died), 
By  holy  charities,  and  prayers,  and  fasts, 
Walked  with  the  angels  in  her  widow's  weeds, 
And  kept  her  pure  in  honor  of  the  dead. 
But  dearer  to  her  bosom  than  the  dead 


JUDITH.  1 95 

Was  Israel,  its  Prophets  and  its  God: 
And  that  dread  midnight  in  the  Tower  alone, 
Believing  He  would  hear  her  from  afar, 
She  lifted  up  the  voices  of  her  soul 
Above  the  wrangling  voices  of  the  world  : 

"  Oh,  are  we  not  Thy  children  who  of  old 
Trod  the  Chaldean  idols  in  the  dust, 
And  built  our  altars  only  unto  Thee  ? 

Didst  Thou  not  lead  us  unto  Canaan 
For  love  of   us,  because  we  spurned  the  gods? 
Didst  Thou  not  bless  us  that  we  worshipped  Thee? 

And  when  a  famine  covered  all  the  land, 
And  drove  us  unto  Egypt,  where  the  King- 
Did  persecute  Thy  chosen  to  the  death  — 

Didst  Thou  not  smite  the  swart  Egyptians  then, 
And  guide  us  through  the  bowels  of  the  deep 
That  swallowed  up  their  horsemen  and  their  King  ? 

For  saw  we  not,  as  in  a  wondrous  dream, 
The  up-tost  javelins,  the  plunging  steeds, 
The  chariots  sinking  in  the  wild  Red  Sea? 

O  Lord,  Thou  hast  been  with  us  in  our  woe, 
And  from  Thy  bosom  Thou  hast  cast  us  forth, 
And  to  Thy  bosom  taken  us  again  : 

For  we  have  built  our  temples  in  the  hills 
By  Sinai,  and  on  Jordan's  flowery  banks, 
And  in  Jerusalem  we  worship  Thee. 

O  Lord,  look    down    and   help  us.     Stretch  Thy 

hand 

And  free  Thy  people.     Make  us  pure  in  faith, 
And  draw  us  nearer,  nearer   unto  Thee." 


196  JUDITH. 

As  when  a  harp-string  trembles  at  a  touch, 
And  music  runs  through  all  its  quivering  length, 
And  does  not  die,  but  seems  to  float  away, 
A  silvery  mist  uprising  from  the  string  — 
So  Judith's  prayer  rose  tremulous  in  the  night, 
And  floated  upward  unto  other  spheres  ; 
And  Judith  loosed  the  hair  about  her  brows, 
And  bent  her  head,  and  wept  for  Israel. 

Now  while  she  wept,  bowed  like  a  lotus-flower 
That  watches  its  own  shadow  in  the  Nile, 
A  stillness  seemed  to  fall  upon  the  land, 
As  if  from  out  the  calyx  of  a  cloud, 
That  blossomed  suddenly  'twixt  the  earth  and  moon, 
It  fell  —  and  presently  there  came  a  sound 
Of  many  pinions  rustling  in  the  dark, 
And  voices  mingling,  far  and  near,  and  strange 
As  sea-sounds  on  some  melancholy  coast 
When  first  the  equinox  unchains  the  Storm. 
And  Judith  started,  and  with  one  quick  hand 
Brushed  back  the  plenteous  tresses  from  a  cheek 
That  whitened  like  a  lily,  and  so  stood, 
Nor   breathed,    nor    moved,    but    listened    with    her 

soul  ; 

And  at  her  side,  invisible,  there  leaned 
An  Angel  mantled  in  his  folded  wings  — 
To  her  invisible,  but  other  eyes 
Beheld  the  saintly  countenance  ;  for,  lo ! 
Great  clouds  of  spirits  swoopt  about  the  Tower 
And  drifted  in  the  eddies  of  the  wind. 
The  Angel  stoopt,  and  from  his  radiant  brow, 
And  from  the  gleaming  amaranth  in  his  hair, 


JUDITH.  197 

A  splendor  fell  on  Judith,  and  she  grew, 
From  her  black  tresses  to  her  arched  feet, 
Fairer  than  morning  in  Arabia. 
Then  silently  the  Presence  spread  his  vans, 
And  rose  —  a  luminous   shadow  in  the  air  — 
And  through  the  zodiac,  a  white  star,  shot. 

As  one  that  wakens  from  a  trance,  she  turned, 
And  heard  the  twilight  twitterings  of  birds, 
The  wind  in  the  turret,  and  from  far  below 
Camp-sounds  of  pawing  hoof  and  clinking  steel; 
And  in  the  East  she  saw  the  early  dawn 
Breaking  the  night's  enchantment ;  saw  the  Moon, 
Like  some  wan  sorceress,  vanish  in  mid-heaven, 
Leaving  a  moth-like  glimmer  where  she  died. 

And  Judith  rose,  and  down  the  spiral  stairs 
Descended  to  the  garden  of  the  Tower, 
Where,  at  the  gate,  lounged  Achior,  lately  fled 
From  Holofernes ;  as  she  past  she  spoke  : 
"The  Lord  be  with  thee,  Achior,  all  thy  days." 
And  Achior  saw  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord 
Had  been  with  her,  and,  in  a  single  night, 
Worked  such  a  miracle  of  form  and  face 
As  left  her  lovelier  than  all  womankind 
Who  was  before  the  fairest  in  Judsea. 
But  she,  unconscious  of   God's  miracle, 
Moved  swiftly  on  among  a  frozen  group 
Of  statues  that  with  empty,  slim-necked  urns 
Taunted  the  thirsty  Seneschal,  until 
She  came  to  where,  beneath  the  spreading  palms, 
Sat  Chabris  with  Ozias    and  his  friend 
Charmis,  governors  of  the  leaguered  town. 


198  JUDITH. 

They  saw  a  glory  shining  on  her  face 

Like  daybreak,  and  they  marvelled  as  she  stood 

Bending  before  them  with  humility. 

And  wrinkled  Charmis  murmured  through  his  beard 

"  This  woman  walketh  in  the  smile  of  God." 

"  So  walk  we  all,"  spoke  Judith.     "  Evermore 
His  light  envelops  us,  and  only  those 
Who  turn  aside  their  faces  droop  and  die 
In  utter  midnight.     If  we  faint  we  die. 
O,  is  it  true,  Ozias,  thou  hast  sworn 
To  yield  our  people  to  their  enemies 
After  five  days,  unless  the  Lord  shall  stoop 
From  heaven  to  help  us  ?  " 

And  Ozias  said  : 

"  Our  young  men  die  upon  the  battlements  ; 
Our  wives  and  children  by  the  empty  tanks 
Lie  down  and  perish." 

"  If  we  faint  we  die. 

The  weak  heart  builds  its  palace  on  the  sand, 
The  flood-tide  eats  the  palace  of  a  fool: 
But  whoso  trusts  in  God,  as  Jacob  did, 
Though  suffering  greatly  even  to  the  end, 
Dwells  in  a  citadel  upon  a  rock 
That  wind  nor  wave  nor  fire  shall  topple  down." 

"  Our  young  men  die  upon  the  battlements," 
Answered  Ozias  ;  "by  the  dusty  wells 
Our  wives  and  children." 


JUDITH.  199 

"  They  shall  go  and  dwell 
With  Seers  and  Prophets  in   eternal  joy! 
Is  there  no  God  ?  " 

"One  only,"  Chabris  spoke, 
"But  now  His  face  is  darkened  in  a  cloud. 
He  sees  not  Israel." 

"  Is  His  mercy  less 

Than  Holof ernes'  ?     Shall  we  place  our  faith 
In  this  fierce  bull  of  Assur?  are  we  mad 
That  we  so  tear  our  throats  with  our  own  hands?" 
And  Judith's  eyes  flashed  battle  on  the  three, 
Though  all  the  woman  quivered  at  her  lip 
Struggling  with  tears. 

uln  God  we  place  our  trust," 
Said  old  Ozias,  "  yet   for  five  days  more." 

"  Ah  !  His  time  is  not  man's  time,"  Judith  cried, 
"  And  why  should  we,  the  dust  about  His  feet, 
Decide  the  hour  of  our  deliverance, 
Saying  to  Him,   Thus  sJialt   Thou  do,  and  so  ? " 

Then  gray  Ozias  bowed  his  head,  abashed 
That  eighty  winters  had  not  made  him  wise, 
For  all  the  drifted  snow  of  his  long  beard  : 
"•  This  woman   speaketh  wisely.     We  were  wrong 
That  in  our  anguish  mocked  the  Lord  our  God, 
The  staff,  the  scrip,  the  stream  whereat  we  drink." 
And   then   to   Judith :    "  Child,  what   would st   thou 
have  ?  " 


200  JUDITH. 

"  I  know  and  know  not.     Something  I  know  not 
Makes  music  in  my  bosom ;  as  I  move 
A  presence  goes  before  me,  and  I  hear 
New  voices  mingling  in  the  upper  air  ; 
Within  my  hand  there  seems  another  hand 
Close-prest,  that  leads  me  to  yon  dreadful  camp ; 
While  in  my  brain  the  fragments  of  a  dream 
Lie  like  a  broken  string  of  diamonds, 
The  choicest  missing.     Ask  110  more.     I  know 

And  know  not See  !  the  very  air  is  white 

With  fingers  pointing.     Where  they  point  I  go." 

She  spoke  and  paused :   the  three  old   men  looked 

up 

And  saw  a  sudden  motion  in  the  air 
Of  white  hands  waving  ;  and  they  dared  not  speak, 
But  muffled  their  thin  faces  in  their  robes, 
And  sat  like  those  grim  statues  which  the  wind 
Near  some  unpeopled  city  in  the  East 
From  foot  to  forehead  wraps  in  desert  dust. 

"  Ere  thrice  the  shadow  of  the  temple  slants 
Across  the  fountain,  I  shall  come  again." 
Thus  Judith  softly:  then  a  gleam  of  light 
Played  through  the  silken  lashes  of  her  eyes, 
As  lightning  through  the  purple  of  a  cloud 
On  some  still  tropic  evening,  when  the  breeze 
Lifts  not  a  single  blossom  from  the  bough: 
"  What  lies  in  that  unfolded  flower  of  time 
No  man  may  know.     The  thing  I  can  I  will, 
Leaning  on  God,  remembering  how  He  loved 
Jacob  in  Syria  when  he  fed  the  flocks 


JUDITH.  201 

Of  Laban,  and  what  miracles  He  did 
For  Abraham  and  for  Isaac  at  their  need. 
Wait  thou  the  end  ;  and,  till  I  come,  keep  thou 
The  sanctuaries."     And  Ozias  swore 
By  those  weird  fingers  pointing  in  the  air, 
And  by  the  soul  of  Abraham  gone  to  rest, 
To  keep  the  sanctuaries,  though  she  came 
And  found  the  bat  sole  tenant  of  the  Tower, 
And  all  the  people  bleaching  on   the  walls, 
And  no  voice  left.     Then  Judith  moved  away, 
Her  head  bowed  on  her  bosom,  like  to  one 
That  moulds  some  subtle  purpose  in  a  dream,    , 
And  in  his  passion  rises  up  and  walks 
Through  labyrinths  of  slumber  to  the  dawn. 

When  she  had  gained  her  chamber  she  threw  off 
The  livery  of  sorrow  for  her  lord, 
The  cruel  sackcloth  that  begirt  her  limbs, 
And  from  those  ashen  colors  issuing  forth, 
Seemed  like  a  golden  butterfly  new-slipt 
From  its  dull  chrysalis.     Then,  after  bath, 
She  braided  in  the  darkness  of  her  hair 
A  thread  of  opals;  on  her  rounded  breast 
Spilt  precious  ointment ;  and  put  on  the  robes 
Whose  rustling  made  her  pause,  half-garmented, 
To  dream  a  moment  of  her  bridal  morn. 
Of  snow-white  silk  stuff  were  the  robes,  and  rich 
With  delicate  branch-work,   silver-frosted  star, 
And  many  a  broidered  lily-of-the-vale. 
These  things  became  her  as  the  scent  the  rose, 
For  fairest  things  are  beauty's  natural  dower. 
The  sun  that  through  the  jealous  casement  stole 


202 


JUDITH. 


Fawned  on  the  Hebrew  woman  as  she  stood, 
Toyed  with  the  oval  pendant  at  her  ear, 
And,  like  a  lover,  stealing  to  her  lips 
Taught  them  a  deeper   crimson  ;    then  slipt  down 
The  tremulous  lilies  to  the  sandal  straps 
That  bound  her  snowy  ankles. 


JUDITH.  203 

Forth  she  went, 

A  glittering  wonder,  through  the  crowded  streets, 
Her  handmaid,  like  a  shadow,  following  on. 
And  as  in  summer  when  the  beaded  wheat 
Leans  all  one  way,  and  with  a  longing  look 
Marks  the  quick  convolutions  of  the  wind, 
So  all  eyes  went  with  Judith  as  she  moved, 
All  hearts  leaned  to  her  with  a  weight  of  love. 
A  starving  woman  lifted  ghostly  hands 
And  blest  her  for  old  charities;  a  child 
Smiled  on  her  through  its  tears ;  and  one  gaunt  chief 
Threw  down  his  battle-axe  and  doffed  his  helm, 
As  if  some  bright  Immortal  swept  him  by. 

So  forth  she  fared,  the  only  thing  of  light 
In  that  dark  city,  thridding  tortuous  ways 
By  gloomy  arch  and  frowning  barbacan, 
Until  she  reached  a  gate  of  triple  brass 
That  opened  at  her  coming,  and  swung  to 
With  horrid  clangor  and  a  ring  of  bolts. 
And  there,  outside  the  city  of  her  love, 
The  warm  blood  at  her  pulses,  Judith  paused 
And  drank  the  morning ;   then  with  silent  prayers 
Moved   on    through   flakes  of  sunlight,  through  the 

wood 
To  Holofernes  and  his  barbarous  hordes. 


II. 

THE    CAMP   OF   ASSUR. 

As  on  the  house-tops  of  a  seaport  town, 
After  a  storm  has  lashed  the  dangerous  coast, 
The  people  crowd  to  watch  some  hopeless  ship 
Tearing  its  heart  upon  the  unseen   reef, 
And  strain  their  sight  to  catch  the  tattered  sail 
That  comes  and  goes,  and  glimmers,  till  at  last 
No  eye  can  find  it,  and  a  sudden  awe 
Falls  on  the  people,  and  no  soul  may  speak  : 
So,  from  the  windy  parapets  and  roofs 
Of  the  embattled  city,  anxious  groups 
Watched  the  faint  flutter  of  a  woman's  dress  — 
Judith,  who,  toiling  up  a  distant  hill, 
Seemed  but  a  speck  against  the  sunny  green  ; 
Yet  ever  as  the  wind  drew  back  her  robes, 
They  saw  her  from  the  towers,  until  she  reached 
The  crest,  and  past  into  the  azure  sky. 
Then,  each  one  gazing  on  his  neighbor's  face, 
Speechless,  descended  to  the  level  world. 

Before  his  tent,  stretched  011  a  leopard-skin, 
Lay  Holofernes,  ringed  by  his  dark  lords  — 
Himself  the  prince  of  darkness.     At  his  side 
His  iron  helmet  poured  upon  the  grass 
Its  plume  of  horsehair  ;  on  his  ponderous  spear, 
The  flinty  barb  thrust  half  its  length  in  earth, 


JUDITH.  205 

As  if  some  giant  had  flung  it,  hung  his  shield, 
And  on  the  burnished  circuit  of  the  shield 
A  sinewy  dragon,  rampant,  silver-fanged, 
Glared  horrible  with  sea-green  emerald  eyes ; 
And,  as  the  sunshine  struck  across  it,  writhed, 
And  seemed  a  type  of  those  impatient  lords 
Who,  in  the  loud  war-council  here  convened, 
Gave  voice  for  battle,  and  with  fiery  words 
Opposed  the  cautious  wisdom  of  their  peers. 
So  seemed  the  restless  dragon  on  the  shield. 

Baleful  and  sullen  as  a  sulphurous  cloud 
Packed  with  the  lightning,  Holofernes  lay, 
Brooding  upon  the  diverse  arguments, 
Himself  not  arguing,  but  listening  most 
To  the  curt  phrases  of  the  gray-haired  chiefs. 
And  some  said :  "  Take  the  city  by  assault, 
And  grind  it  into  atoms  at  a  blow." 
And  some  said  :    "  Wait.     There  's   that  within   the 

walls 

Shall  gnaw  its  heart  out  —  hunger.     Let  us  wait." 
To  which  the  younger  chieftains  :    "If  we  wait, 
Ourselves  shall  starve.     Like  locusts  we  have  fed 
Upon  the  land  till  there  is  nothing  left, 
Nor  grass,  nor  grain,  nor   any  living  thing. 
And  if  at  last  we  take  a  famished  town 
With  fifty  thousand  ragged  skeletons, 
What  boots  it?    We  shall  hunger  all  the  same. 
Now,  by  great  Baal,  we  'd  rather  die  at  once 
Than  languish,  scorching,  on  these  sun-baked  hills ! " 
At  which  the  others  called  them  "fretful  girls," 
And    scoffed  at  them :    "Ye  should    have    stayed    at 

home, 


206  JUDITH. 

And  decked  your  hair  with  sunny  butterflies, 

Like  King  Arphaxad's  harlots.     Know  ye  not 

Patience  and  valor  are  the  head  and  heart 

Of  warriors?    Who  lacks  in  either,  fails. 

Have  we  not  hammered  with  our  catapults 

Those    stubborn    gates?     Have    we    not   hurled  our 

men 

Against  the  angry  torrent  of  their  spears  ? 
Mark  how  those  birds  that  wheel  above  yon  wood, 
In  clanging  columns,  settle  greedily  down 
Upon  the  unearthed  bodies  of  our  dead. 
See  where  they  rise,  red-beaked  and  surfeited! 
Has  it  availed  ?     Let  us  be  patient,  then, 
And  bide  the  sovran  pleasure  of  the  gods." 
"  And  when,"  quoth  one,  "  our  stores  of  meat  are 

gone, 

We  '11  even  feed  upon  the  tender  flesh 
Of  these  tame  girls,  who,  though  they  dress  in  steel, 
Like  more  the  dulcet  tremors  of  a  lute 
Than  the  shrill  whistle  of  an  arrow-head." 

At  this  a  score  of  falchions  leapt  in  air, 
And   hot-breathed  words   took   flight   from   bearded 

lips, 

And  they  had  slain  each  other  in  their  heat, 
These  savage  captains,  quick  with  bow  and  spear, 
But  that  dark  Holofernes  started  up 
To  his  full  height,  and,  speaking  not  a  word, 
With  anger-knitted  forehead  glared  at  them. 
As  they  shrunk  back,  their  passion  and  their  shame 
Gave  place  to  wonder,  finding  in  their  midst 
A  woman  whose  exceeding  radiance 


JUDITH.  207 

Of  brow  and  bosom  made  her  garments  seem 
Threadbare  and  lustreless,  yet  whose  attire 
Outshone  the  purples  of  a  Persian  queen. 

For  Judith,  who  knew  all  the  mountain  paths 
As  one  may  know  the  delicate  azure  veins, 
Each  crossing  each,  on  his  beloved's  wrist, 
Had  stolen  between  the  archers  in  the  wood 
And  gained  the  straggling  outskirts  of  the  cainp, 
And  seeing  the  haughty  gestures  of  the  chiefs, 
Halted,  with  fear,  and  knew  not  where  to  turn  ; 
Then  taking  heart,  had  silently  approached, 
And  stood  among  them,  until  then  unseen. 
And  in  the  air,  like  numerous  swarms  of  bees, 
Arose  the  wondering  murmurs  of  her  throng, 
Which  checking,  Holofernes  turned  and  cried, 
u  Who  breaks  upon  our  councils  ?  "  angrily, 
But  drinking  then  the  beauty  of  her  eyes, 
And  seeing  the  rosy  magic  of  her  mouth, 
And  all  the  fragrant  summer  of  her  hair 
Blown  sweetly  round  her  forehead,  stood  amazed; 
And  in  the  light  of  her  pure  modesty 
His  voice  took  gentler  accent  unawares : 
"  Whence  come  ye  ?  " 

"  Erom  yon  city." 

"By  our  life, 

We  thought  the  phantom  of  some  murdered  queen 
Had  risen  from  dead  summers  at  our  feet ! 
If  these  Judaean  women  are  so  shaped, 
Daughters  of  goddesses,  let  none  be  slain. 
What  seek  ye,  woman,  in  the  hostile  camps 
Of  Assur?" 


208  JUDITH. 

"  Holofernes." 


This  is  he." 


"  O  good  my  lord,"  cried  Judith,  "  if  indeed 
Thou  art  that  Holofernes  whom  I  seek, 
And  seeking  dread  to  find,  low  at  thy  feet 
Behold  thy  handmaid,  who  in  fear  has  flown 
From  a  doomed  people." 

"  Wherein  thou  wert  wise 
Beyond  the  usual  measure  of  thy  sex, 
And  shalt  have  such  observance  as  a  king 
Gives  to  his  mistress,  though  our  enemy. 
As  for  thy  people,  they  shall  rue  the  hour 
That  brought  not  tribute  to  the  lord  of  all, 
Nabuchodonosor.    But  thou  shalt  live." 

"  O  good  my  lord,"  spoke  Judith,  "  as  thou  wilt, 
So  would  thy  handmaid  ;  and  I  pray  thee  now 
Let  those  that  listen  stand  awhile  aloof, 
For  I  have  that  for  thine  especial  ear 
Most  precious  to  thee."     Then  the  crowd  fell  back, 
Muttering,  and  half  reluctantly,  because 
Her  beauty  drew  them  as  the  moon  the  sea  — 
Fell  back  and  lingered,  leaning  on  their  shields 
Under  the  trees,  some  couchant  in  the  grass, 
Broad-throated,  large-lunged  Titans  overthrown, 
Eying  the  Hebrew  woman,  whose  sweet  looks 
Brought  them  a  sudden  vision  of  their  wives 
And  longings  for  them  :  and  her  presence  there 
Was  as  a  spring  that,  in  Sahara's  wastes, 
Taking  the  thirsty  traveller  by  surprise, 
Loosens  its  silver  music  at  his  feet. 
Then  Judith,  modest,  with  down-drooping  eyes  : 


JUDITH,  209 

"  My  lord,  if  yet  thou  boldest  in  thy  thought 
The  words  which  Achior  the  Ammonite 
Once  spake  to  thee   concerning  Israel, 
O  treasure  them,  for  in  them  was  no  guile. 
True  is  it,  master,  that   our  people  kneel 
To  an  unseen  but  not  an  unknown  God : 
By  day  and  night  He  watches  over  us, 
And  while  we  worship  Him  we  cannot  die, 
Our  tabernacles  shall  be  unprofaned, 
Our  spears  invincible  ;  but  if  we  sin, 
If  we  transgress  the  law  by  which  we  live, 
Our  temples  shall  be  desecrate,  our  tribes 
Thrust  forth  into  the  howling  wilderness, 
Scourged  and   accursed.     Therefore,  O  my  lord, 
Seeing  this  nation  wander  from  the  faith 
Taught  of  the  Prophets,  I  have  fled  dismayed, 
For  fear  the  towers  might  crush  me  as  they  fall. 
Heed,  Holofernes,  what  I  speak  this  day, 
And  if  the  thing  I  tell  thee  prove  not  true 
Ere  thrice  the  sun  goes  down  beyond  those  peaks, 
Then  straightway  plunge  thy  falchion  in  my  breast, 
For  't  were  not  meet  that  thy  handmaid  should  live, 
Having  deceived  the  crown  and  flower  of  men." 

She  spoke  and  paused  :  and  sweeter  on  his  ear 
Were  Judith's  words  than  ever  seemed  to  him 
The  wanton  laughter  of  the  Assyrian  girls 
In  the  bazaars  ;  and  listening  he  heard  not 
The  never-ceasing  murmurs  of  the  camp, 
The  neighing  of  the  awful  battle-steeds, 
Nor  the  vain  wind  among  the  drowsy  palms. 
The  tents  that  straggled  up  the  hot  hillsides, 

14 


210  JUDITH. 

The  warriors  lying  in  the  tangled  grass, 
The  fanes  and  turrets  of  the  distant  town, 
And  all  that  was,  dissolved  and  past  away, 
Save  this  one  woman  with  her  twilight  eyes 
And  the  miraculous  cadence  of  her  voice. 

Then  Judith,  catching  at  the  broken  thread 
Of  her  discourse,  resumed,  to  closer  draw 
The  silken  net  about  the  foolish  prince  ; 
And  as  she  spoke,  from  time  to  time  her  gaze 
Dwelt  on  his  massive  stature,  and  she  saw 
That  he  was  shapely,  knitted  like  a  god, 
A  tower  beside  the  men  of  her  own  land. 

"  Heed,  Holofernes,  what  I  speak  this  day, 
And  thou  shalt  rule  not  only  Bethulia, 
Rich  with  its  hundred  altars'  crusted  gold, 
But  Cades-Barne,  Jerusalem,  and  all 
The  vast  hill-country  even  to  the  sea : 
For  I  am  come  to  give  unto  thy  hands 
The  key  of  Israel,  —  Israel  now  no  more, 
Since  she  disowns  her  Prophets  and  her  God. 
Know  then,  O  lord,  it  is  our  yearly  use 
To  lay  aside  the  first  fruit  of  the  grain, 
And  so  much  oil,  so  many  skins  of  wine, 
Which,  being  sanctified,  are  kept  intact 
For  the  High  Priests  who  serve  before  our  God 
In  the  great  temple  at  Jerusalem. 
This  holy  food  —  which  even  to  touch  is  death  - 
The  rulers,  sliding  from  their  ancient  faith, 
Would  fain  lay  hands  on,  being  wellnigh  starved ; 
And  they  have  sent  a  runner  to  the  Priests 


JUDITH.  211 

(The  Jew  Ben  Raphaim,  who,  at  dead  of  night, 
Shot  like  a  javelin  between  thy  guards), 
Bearing  a  parchment  begging  that  the  Church 
Yield  them  permit  to  eat  the  sacred  corn. 
But  't  is  not  lawful  they  should  do  this  thing, 
Yet  will  they  do  it.      Then  shalt  thou  behold 
The  archers  tumbling  headlong  from  the  walls, 
Their  strength  gone  from  them  ;  thou  shalt  see  the 

spears 

Splitting  like  reeds  within  the  spearmen's  hands, 
And  the  pale  captains  tottering  like  old  men 
Stricken  with  palsy.     Then,  O  glorious  prince, 
Then  with  thy  trumpets  blaring  doleful  dooms, 
And  thy  silk  banners  flapping  in  the  wind, 
With  squares  of  men  and  eager  clouds  of  horse 
Thou  shalt  swoop   down  on   them,  and   strike  them 

dead! 

But  now,  my  lord,  before  this  come  to  pass, 
Three  days  must  wane,  for  they  touch  not  the  food 
Until  the  Jew  Ben  Raphaim  shall  return 
With  the  Priests'  message.     Here  among  thy  hosts, 
O  Holofernes,  will  I  dwell  the  while, 
Asking  but  this,  that  I  and  my  handmaid 
Each  night,  at  the  twelfth  hour,  may  egress  have 
Unto  the  valley,  there  to  weep  and  pray 
That  God  forsake  this  nation  in  its  sin. 
And  as  my  prophecy  prove  true  or  false, 
So  be  it  with  me." 

Judith  ceased,  and  stood, 
Her  hands  across  her  bosom,  as  in  prayer ; 
And  Holofernes  answered :  "  Be  it  so. 
And  if,  O  pearl  of  women,  the  event 


212  JUDITH. 

Prove  not  a  dwarf  beside  the  prophecy, 
Then  there  's  no  woman  like  thee  —  no,  not  one. 
Thy  name  shall  be  renowned  through  the  world, 
Music  shall  wait  on  thee,  thou  shalt  have  crowns,. 
And  jewel-chests  of  costly  camphor-wood, 
And  robes  as  glossy  as  the  ring-dove's  neck, 
And  milk-white  mares,   and  chariots,  and  slaves: 
And  thou  shalt  dwell  with  me  in  Nineveh, 
In  Nineveh,  the  City  of  the  Gods ! " 

At  which  the  Jewish   woman  bowed  her  head 
Humbly,  that  Holofernes  might  not  see 
How   blanched   her   cheek    grew.     "  Even    as    thou 

wilt, 

So  would  thy  servant."     At  a  word  the  slaves 
Brought   meat   and   wine,    and    placed    them   in    a 

tent, 

A  silk  pavilion,  wrought  with  arabesques, 
That  stood  apart,  for  Judith  and  her  maid. 
But  Judith  ate  not,  saying :    "  Master,  no. 
It  is  not  lawful  that  we  taste  of  these ; 
My  maid  has  brought  a  pouch  of  parche*d  corn, 
And  bread,  and  figs,  and  wine  of  our  own  land, 
Which  shall  not  fail  us."     Holofernes  said, 
"  So  let  it  be,"  and  lifting  up  the  screen 
Past  out,  and  left  them  sitting  in  the  tent. 

That  day  he  mixt  not  with  the  warriors 
As  was  his  wont,  nor  watched  them  at  their  games 
In  the  wide  shadow  of  the  terebinth-trees ; 
But  up  and  down  within  a  lonely  grove 
Paced  slowly,  brooding  on  her  perfect  face, 


JUDITH.  213 

Saying  her  smooth  words  over  to  himself. 
Heedless  of  time,  till  he  looked  up  and  saw 
The  spectre  of  the  Twilight  on  the  hills. 

The  fame  of  Judith's  loveliness  had  flown 
From  lip  to  lip  throughout  the  canvas  town, 
And  as  the  evening  deepened,  many  came 
From  neighboring  camps,  with  frivolous  excuse, 
To  pass  the  green  pavilion  —  long-haired  chiefs 
That  dwelt  by  the  Hydaspe,  and  the  sons 
Of  the  Elymeans,  and  slim  Tartar  youths  ; 
But  saw  not  her,  who,  shut  from  common  air, 
Basked  in  the  twilight  of  the  tapestries. 

But  when  night  came,  and  all  the  camp  was  still, 
And  nothing  moved  beneath  the  icy  stars 
In  their  blue  bourns,  except  some  stealthy  guard, 
A  shadow  among  shadows,  Judith  rose, 
Calling  her  servant,  and  the  sentinel 
Drew  back,  and  let  her  pass  beyond  the  lines 
Into  the  valley.     And  her  heart  was  full, 
Seeing  the  watch-fires  burning  on  the  towers 
Of  her  own  city:  and  she  knelt  and  prayed 
For  it  and  them  that  dwelt  within  its  walls, 
And  was  refreshed  —  such  balm  there  lies  in  prayer 
For  those  who   know  God  listens.     Straightway  then 
The  two  returned,  and  all  the  camp  was  still. 

One  cresset  twinkled  dimly  in  the  tent 
Of  Holofernes,  and  Bagoas,  his  slave, 
Lay  prone  across  the  matting  at  the  door, 
Drunk  with  the  wine  of  slumber;  but  his  lord 


214  JUDITH. 

Slept  not,  or,  sleeping,  rested  not  for  thought 
Of  Judith's  beauty.     Two  large  lucent  eyes, 
Tender  and  full  as  moons,  dawned  on  his  sleep  ; 
And  when  he  woke,  they  filled  the  vacant  dusk 
With  an  unearthly  splendor.     All  night  long 
A  stately  figure  glided  through  his  dream  ; 
Sometimes  a  queenly  diadem  weighed  down 
Its  braided   tresses,  and  sometimes  it  came 
Draped  only  in  a  misty  cloud  of  veils, 
Like  the  King's  dancing-girls  at  Nineveh. 
And  once  it  bent  above  him  in  the  gloom, 
And  touched  his  forehead  with  most  hungry  lips. 
Then  Holofernes  turned  upon  his  couch, 
And,  yearning  for  the  daybreak,  slept  110  more. 


III. 

THE    FLIGHT. 

IN  the  far  east,  as  viewless  tides  of  time 

Drew  011  the  drifting  shallop  of  the  Dawn, 

A  fringe  of  gold  went  rippling  up  the  gray, 

And  breaking  rosily  on  cliff  and  spur, 

Still  left  the  vale  in  shadow.     While  the  fog 

Folded  the  camp  of  Assur,  and  the  dew 

Yet  shook  in  clusters  on  the  new  green  leaf, 

And  not  a  bird  had  dipt  a  wing  in  air, 

The  restless  captain,  haggard  with  no  sleep, 

Stept  over  the  curved  body  of  his  slave, 

And  thridding  moodily  the  dingy  tents, 

Hives  packed  with  sleepers,  stood  within  the  grove, 

And  in  the  cool,  gray  twilight  gave  his  thought 

Wings  ;  but  however  wide  his  fancies  flew, 

They  circled  still  the  figure  of  his  dream. 

He  sat:  before  him  rose  the  fluted  domes 
Of  Nineveh,  his  city,  and  he  heard 
The  clatter  of  the  merchants  in  the  booths 
Selling  their  merchandise  :  and  now  he  breathed 
The  airs  of  a  great  river,  sweeping  down 
Past  carven  pillars,  under  tamarisk  boughs, 
To  where  the  broad  sea  sparkled :  then  he  groped 
In  a  damp  catacomb,  he  knew  not  where, 
By  torchlight,  hunting  for  his  own  grim  name 


216  JUDITH. 

On  some  sarcophagus  :  and  as  he  mused, 

From  out  the  ruined  kingdom  of  the  Past 

Glided  the  myriad  women  he  had  wronged, 

The  half-forgotten  passions  of   his  youth; 

Dark-browed  were  some,  with  haughty,  sultry  eyes, 

Imperious  and  most  ferocious  loves ; 

And  some,  meek  blondes  with  lengths  of  flaxen  hair  — 

Daughters  of  Sunrise,  shaped  of  fire  and  snow, 

And  Holofernes  smiled  a  bitter  smile 

Seeing  these  spectres  in  his  revery, 

When  suddenly  one  face  among  the  train 

Turned  full  upon  him  —  such  a  piteous  face, 

Blanched  with  such  anguish,  looking  such  reproach, 

So  sunken-eyed  and  awful  in  its  woe, 

His  heart  shook  in  his  bosom,  and   he  rose 

As  if  to  smite  it,  and  before  him  stood 

Bagoas,  the  bondsman,  bearing  in  his  arms 

A  jar  of  water,  while  the  morning  broke 

In  dewy  splendor  all  about  the  grove. 

Then  Holofernes,  vext  that  he  was  cowed 
By  his  own  fantasy,  strode  back  to  camp, 
Bagoas  following,  sullen,  like  a  hound 
That  takes  the  color  of  his  master's  mood. 
And  with  the  troubled  captain  went  the  shapes 
Which  even  the  daylight  could  not  exorcise. 

"  Go,  fetch  me  wine,  and  let  my  soul  make  cheer, 
For  I  am  sick  with  visions  of  the  night. 
Some  strangest  malady  of  breast  and  brain 
Hath  so  unnerved  me  that  a  rustling  leaf 
Sets  my  pulse  leaping.     'T  is  a  family  flaw, 


JUDITH.  217 

A  flaw  in  men  else  flawless,  this  dark  spell: 
I  do  remember  when  my  grandsire  died, 
He  thought  a  lying  Ethiop  he  had  slain 
Was  strangling  him;  and,  later,  my  own  sire 
Went  mad  with  dreams  the  day  before  his  death. 
And  I,  too  ?     Slave !    go  fetch  me  seas  of  wine, 
That  I  may  drown  these  fantasies  —  no,  stay ! 
Ransack  the  camps  for  choicest  flesh  and  fruit, 
And  spread  a  feast  within  my  tent  this  night, 
And  hang  the  place  with  garlands  of  new  flowers ; 
Then  bid  the  Hebrew  woman,  yea  or  nay, 
To  banquet  with  us.     As  thou  lov'st  the  light, 
Bring  her ;  and  if  indeed  the  gods  have  called, 
The  gods  shall  find  me  sitting  at  my  feast 
Consorting  with  a  daughter  of  the  gods  ! " 

Thus  Holofernes,  turning  on  his  heel 
Impatiently  ;  and  straight  Bagoas  went 
And  spoiled  the  camps  of  viands  for  the  feast, 
And  hung  the  place  with  flowers,  as  he  was  bid ; 
And  seeing  Judith's  servant  at  the  well, 
Gave  his  lord's  message,  to  which  answer  came : 
"  O  what  am  I  that  should  gainsay  my  lord  ?  " 
And  Holofernes  smiled  within,  and  thought: 
"  Or  life  or  death,  if  I  should  have  her  not 
In  spite  of  all,  my  mighty  name  would  be 
A  word  for  laughter  among  womankind." 

"  So  soon !  "  thought  Judith.     "  Flying  pulse,  be 

still ! 

O  Thou  who  lovest  Israel,  give  me  strength 
And  cunning  such  as  never    woman  had, 


218  JUDITH. 

That  my  deceit  may  be  his  stripe  and  scar, 
My  kisses  his  destruction.     This  for  thee, 
My  city,  Bethulia,  this  for  thee  !  " 

And  thrice  that  day  she  prayed  within  her  heart, 
Bowed  down  among  the  cushions  of  the  tent 
In  shame  and  wretchedness ;    and  thus  she  prayed : 
"  O  save  me  from  him,  Lord !  but  save  me  most 
From  mine  own  sinful  self :   for,  lo  !   this  man, 
Though  viler  than  the  vilest  thing  that  walks, 
A  worshipper  of  fire  and  senseless  stone, 
Slayer  of  children,  enemy  of  God  — 
He,  even  he,  O  Lord,  forgive  my  sin, 
Hath  by  his  heathen  beauty  moved  me  more 
Than  should  a  daughter  of  Judaea  be  moved, 
Save  by  the  noblest.     Clothe  me  with  Thy  love. 
And  rescue  me,  and  let  me  trample  down 
All  evil  thought,  and  from  my  baser  self 
Climb  up  to  Thee,  that  aftertimes  may  say: 
She  tore  the  guilty  passion  from  her  soul,  — 
Judith  the  pure,  the  faithful  unto   death" 

Half  seen  behind  the  forehead  of  a  crag 
The  evening-star  grew  sharp  against  the  dusk, 
As  Judith  lingered  by  the  curtained  door 
Of  her  pavilion,  waiting  for  Bagoas  : 
Erewhile  he  came,  and  led  her  to  the  tent 
Of  Holofernes;   and  she  entered  in, 
And  knelt  before  him  in  the  cresset's  glare 
Demurely,  like  a  slave-girl  at  the  feet 
Of  her  new  master,  while  the  modest  blood 
Makes  protest  to  the  eyelids ;  and  he  leaned 


JUDITH.  221 

Graciously  over  her,  and  bade  her  rise 

And  sit  beside  him  on  the  leopard-skins. 

But  Judith  would  not,  yet  with  gentlest  grace 

Would  not ;  and  partly  to  conceal  her  blush, 

Partly  to  quell  the  riot  in  her  breast, 

She  turned,  and  wrapt  her  in  her  fleecy  scarf, 

And  stood  aloof,  nor  looked  as  one  that  breathed, 

But  rather  like  some  jewelled  deity 

Taken  by  a  conqueror  from  its  sacred  niche, 

And  placed  among  the  trappings  of  his  tent  — 

So  pure  was  Judith. 

For  a  moment's  space 

She  stood,  then  stealing  softly  to  his  side, 
Knelt  down  by  him,  and  with  uplifted  face, 
Whereon  the  red  rose  blossomed  with  the  white : 
"  This  night,  my  lord,  no  other  slave  than  I       » 
Shall  wait  on  thee  with  fruits  and  flowers  and  wine. 
So  subtle  am  I,  I  shall  know  thy  wish 
Ere  thou  canst  speak  it.     Let  Bagoas  go 
Among  his  people  :  let  me  wait  and  serve, 
More   happy  as  thy  handmaid  than  thy  guest." 

Thereat  he  laughed,  and,  humoring  her  mood, 
Gave  the  black  bondsman  freedom  for  the  night. 
Then  Judith  moved,  obsequious,  and  placed 
The  meats  before  him,  and  poured  out  the  wine, 
Holding  the  golden  goblet  while  he  ate, 
Nor  ever  past  it  empty  ;  and  the  wine 
Seemed  richer  to  him  for  those  slender  hands. 
So  Judith  served,  and  Holofernes  drank, 
Until  the  lamps  that  glimmered  round  the  tent 
In  mad  processions  danced  before  his  gaze. 


222  JUDITH. 

Without,  the  moon  dropt  clown  behind  the  sky ; 
Within,  the  odors  of  the  heavy  flowers, 
And  the  aromas  of  the  mist  that  curled 
From  swinging  cressets,  stole  into  the  air  ; 
And  through  the  mist  he  saw  her  come  and  go, 
Now  showing  a  faultless  arm  against  the  light, 
And  now  a  dainty  sandal  set  with  gems. 
At  last  he  knew  not  in  what  place  he  was. 
For  as  a  man  who,  softly  held   by  sleep, 
Knows   that   he    dreams,  yet   knows  not  true  from 

false, 

Perplext  between  the  margins  of  two  worlds, 
So  Holofernes,  flushed  with  the  red  wine. 

Like  a  bride's  eyes,  the  eyes  of  Judith  shone, 
As  ever  bending  over  him  with  smiles 
She  filled  the  generous  chalice  to  the  edge ; 
And  half  he  shrunk  from  her,  and  knew  not  why, 
Then  wholly  loved  her  for  her  loveliness, 
And    drew    her    close    to    him,    and    breathed    her 

breath  ; 

And  once  he  thought  the  Hebrew  woman  sang 
A  wine-song,  touching  on  a  certain  king 
Who,  dying  of  strange  sickness,  drank,  and  past 
Beyond  the  touch  of  mortal  agony  — 
A  vague  tradition  of  the  cunning  sprite 
That  dwells  within  the  circle  of  the  grape. 
And  thus  he  heard,  or  fancied  that  he  heard  :  — 

The  small  green  grapes  in  countless   clusters  grew, 
Feeding  on    mystic  moonlight  and  white  dew 
And  mellow  sunshine,  the  long  summer  through : 


JUDITH.  223 

Till,  with  faint  tremor  in  her  veins,  the  Vine 
Felt  the  delicious  pulses  of  the  wine  ; 
And  the  grapes  ripened  in  the  year's  decline. 

And  day  by  day  the  Virgins  watched  their  charge ; 
And  when,  at  last,  beyond  the  horizon's  marge, 
The  harvest-moon  droopt  beautiful  and  large, 

The  subtle  spirit  in  the  grape  was  caught, 
And  to  the  slowly  dying  Monarch  brought, 
In  a  great  cup  fantastically  wrought, 

Whereof  he  drank ;  then  straightway  from  his  brain 
Went  the  weird  malady,  and  once  again 
He  walked  the  Palace,  free  of  scar  or  pain  — 

But  strangely  changed,  for  somehow  he  had  lost 
Body  and  voice  :  the  courtiers,  as  he  crost 
The  royal  chambers,  whispered — The  King's  Ghost! 

"A  potent  medicine  for  kings  and  men," 
Thus  Holofernes  ;  "  he  was  wise  to  drink. 
Be  thou  as  wise,  fair  Judith."     As  he  spoke, 
He  stoopt  to  kiss  the  treacherous  soft  hand 
That  rested  like  a  snow-flake  on  his  arm, 
But  stooping  reeled,  and  from  the  place  he  sat 
Toppled,  and  fell  among  the  leopard-skins : 
There  lay,  nor  stirred;    and  ere  ten  beats  of  heart, 
The  tawny  giant  slumbered. 

Judith  knelt 
And  gazed  upon  him,  and  her  thoughts  were  dark ; 


224  JUDITH. 

For  half  she  longed  to  bid  her  purpose  die  — 
To  stay,  to  weep,  to  fold  him  in  her  arms, 
To  let  her  long  hair  loose  upon  his  face, 
As  on  a  mountain-top  some  amorous  cloud 
Lets  down  its  sombre  tresses  of  fine  rain. 
For  one  wild  instant  in  her  burning  arms 
She  held  him  sleeping  ;  then  grew  wan  as  death, 
Eelaxed  her  hold,  and  starting  from  his  side 
As  if  an  asp  had  stung  her  to  the  quick, 
Listened ;   and  listening,  she  heard  the  moans 
Of  little  children  moaning  in  the  streets 
Of  Bethulia,  saw  famished  women  pass, 
Wringing  their  hands,  and  on  the  broken  walls 
The  flower  of  Israel  dying. 

With  quick  breath 

Judith  blew  out  the  tapers,  all   save  one, 
And  from  his  twisted  girdle  loosed  the  sword, 
And  grasping  the  huge  hilt  with  her  two  hands, 
Thrice  smote  the  Prince  of  Assur  as  he  lay, 
Thrice  on  his  neck  she  smote  him  as  he  lay, 
And  from  the  brawny  shoulders  rolled  the  head 
Winking  and  ghastly  in  the  cresset's  light; 
Which  done,  she  fled  into  the  yawning  dark, 
There  met  her  maid,  who,  stealing  to  the  tent, 
Pulled  down  the  crimson  arras  on  the  corse, 
And  in  her  mantle  wrapt  the  brazen  head, 
And  brought  it  with  her;  and  a  great  gong  boomed 
Twelve,  as  the  women  glided  past  the  guard 
With  measured  footstep :   but  outside  the  camp, 
Terror  seized  on  them,  and  they  fled  like  wraiths 
Through  the  hushed  midnight  into  the  black  woods, 


JUDITH.  225 

Where,  from  gnarled  roots  and  ancient,  palsied  trees, 

Dread  shapes,  upstarting,  clutched  at  them ;  and  once 

A  nameless  bird  in  branches  overhead 

Screeched,  and  the  blood  grew  cold  about  their  hearts. 

By  mouldy  caves,  the  hooded  viper's  haunt, 

Down  perilous  steeps,  and  through  the  desolate  gorge, 

Onward  they  flew,  with  madly  streaming  hair, 

Bearing  their  hideous  burden,  till  at  last, 

Wild  with  the  pregnant  horrors  of  the  night, 

They  dashed  themselves  against  the  City's  gate. 

The  hours  dragged  by,  and  in  the  Assur  camp 
The  pulse  of  life  was  throbbing  languidly, 
When  from  the  outer  waste  an  Arab  scout 
Rushed  pale  and  breathless  on  the  morning  watch, 
With  a  strange  story  of  a  Head  that  hung 
High  in  the  air  above  the  City's  wall  — 
A  livid  Head,  with  knotted,  snake-like  curls  — 
And  how  the  face  was  like  a  face  he  knew, 
And  how  it  turned  and  twisted  in  the  wind, 
And  how  it  stared  upon  him  with  fixt  orbs, 
Till  it  was  not  in  mortal  man  to  stay  ; 
And  how  he  fled,  and  how  he  thought  the  Thing 
Came  bowling  through  the  wheat-fields  after  him. 
And  some  that  listened  were  appalled,  and  some 
Derided  him  ;   but  not  the  less  they  threw 
A  furtive  glance  toward  the  shadowy  wood. 

Bagoas,  among  the  idlers,  heard  the  man, 
And  quick  to  bear  the  tidings  to  his  lord, 
Ran  to  the  tent,  and  called,  "  My  lord,  awake  ! 
Awake,  my  lord  !  "  and  lingered  for  reply. 

15 


226  JUDITH. 

But  answer  came  there   none.     Again  he  called, 
And  all  was   still.     Then,  laughing  in  his  heart 
To  think  how  deeply  Holofernes  slept 
Wrapt  in  soft  arms,  he  lifted  up  the  screen, 
And  marvelled,  finding  no  one  in  the  tent 
Save  Holofernes,  buried  to  the  waist, 
Head  foremost  in  the  canopies.     He  stoopt, 
And  drawing  back  the  damask  folds  beheld 
His  master,  the  grim  giant,  lying  dead. 

As  in  some  breathless  wilderness  at  night 
A  leopard,  pinioned  by  a  falling  tree, 
Shrieks,  and  the  echoes,  mimicking  the  cry, 
Repeat  it  in  a  thousand  different  keys 
By  lonely  heights  and  unimaglned  caves, 
So  shrieked  Bagoas,  and  so  his  cry  was  caught 
And  voiced  along  the  vast  Assyrian  lines, 
And  buffeted  among  the  hundred  hills. 
Then  ceased  the  tumult  sudden  as  it  rose, 
And  a  great  silence  fell  upon  the  camps, 
And  all  the  people  stood  like  blocks  of  stone 
In  some  deserted  quarry ;  then  a  voice 
Blown  through  a  trumpet  clamored :  He  is   dead  ! 
TJie  Prince  is  dead  !     The  Hebrew  witch  hath  slain 
Prince  Holofernes  !     Fly,  Assyrians,  fly  ! 

As  from  its  lair  the  mad  tornado  leaps. 
And,  seizing  011  the  yellow  desert  sands, 
Hurls  them  in  swirling  masses,  cloud  on  cloud, 
So,  at  the  sounding  of  that  baleful  voice, 
A  panic  seized  the  mighty  Assur  hosts, 
And  flung  them  from  their  places. 


JUDITH.  227 

With  wild  shouts 

Across  the  hills  in  pale  dismay  they  fled, 
Trampling  the  sick  and  wounded  under  foot, 
Leaving  their  tents,  their  camels,  and  their  arms, 
Their  horses,  and  their  gilded  chariots. 
Then  with  a  dull  metallic  clang  the  gates 
Of  Bethulia  opened,  and  from  each 
A  sea  of  spears  surged  down  the  arid  hills 
And  broke  remorseless  on  the  flying  foe  - 
Now  hemmed  them  in  upon  a  river's  bank, 
Now  drove  them  shrieking  down  a  precipice, 
Now  in  the  mountain-passes  slaughtered  them, 
Until  the  land,  for  many  a  weary  league, 
Was  red,  as  in  the  sunset,  with  their  blood. 
And  other  cities,  when  they  saw  the  rout 
Of  Holof ernes,  burst  their  gate£,  and  joined 
With  trump  and  banner  in  the  mad  pursuit. 
Three  days  before  those  unrelenting  spears 
The  cohorts  fled,  but  on  the  fourth  they  past 
Beyond  Damascus  into  their  own  land. 

So,  by  God's  grace  and  this  one  woman's  hand, 
The  tombs  and  temples  of  the  Just  were  saved ; 
And  evermore  throughout  fair  Israel 
The  name  of  Judith  meant  all  noblest  things 
In  thought  and  deed;  and  Judith's  life  was  rich 
With  that  content  the  world  takes  not  away. 
And  far-off  kings,  enamoured  of  her  fame, 
Bluff  princes,  dwellers  by  the  salt  sea-sands, 
Sent  caskets  most  laboriously  Carved 
Of  ivory,  and  papyrus  scrolls,  whereon 
Was  writ  their  passion ;  then  themselves  did  come 


228  JUDITH. 

With  spicy  caravans,  in  purple  state, 
To  seek  regard  from  her  imperial  eyes. 
But  she  remained  unwed,  and  to  the  end 
Walked  with  the  angels  in  her  widow's  weeds. 


y. 

SONNETS, 


SONNETS. 

FIRST   SERIES. 


I. 
MIRACLES. 

SICK  of   myself  and  all  that  keeps  the  light 

Of  the  blue  skies  away  from  me  and  mine, 

I  climb  this  ledge,  and  by  this  wind-swept  pine 

Lingering,  watch  the  coming  of  the  night. 

'Tis  ever  a  new  wonder  to  my  sight. 

Men  look  to  God  for  some  mysterious  sign, 

For  other  stars  than  those  that  nightly  shine, 

For  some  unnatural  symbol  of  His  might :  — 

Wouldst  see  a  miracle  as  grand  as  those 

The  prophets  wrought  of  old  in  Palestine? 

Come  watch  with  me  the  shaft  of  fire  that  glows 

In  yonder  West ;    the  fair,  frail  palaces, 

The  fading  alps  and  archipelagoes, 

And  great  cloud-continents  of  sunset-seas. 


II. 
FREDERICKSBURG. 

THE  increasing  moonlight  drifts  across  my  bed, 
And  on  the  churchyard  by  the  road,  I  know 
It  falls  as  white  and  noiselessly  as  snow.  .  .  . 
'T  was  such  a  night  two  weary  summers  fled  ; 
The  stars,  as  now,  were  waning  overhead. 
Listen  !     Again  the  shrill-lipped  bugles  blow 
Where  the  swift  currents  of  the  river  flow 
Past  Fredericksburg :  far  off  the  heavens  are  red 
With  sudden  conflagration :  on  yon  height, 
Linstock  in  hand,  the  gunners  hold  their  breath: 
A  signal-rocket  pierces  the  dense  night, 
Flings  its  spent  stars  upon  the  town  beneath : 
Hark !  —  the  artillery  massing  on  the  right, 
Hark !  —  the    black    squadrons    wheeling    down    to 
Death ! 


III. 
PURSUIT  AND  POSSESSION. 

WHEN  I  behold  what  pleasure  is  Pursuit, 
What  life,  what  glorious  eagerness  it  is ; 
Then  mark  how  full  Possession  falls  from  this, 
How  fairer  seems  the  blossom  than  the  fruit  — 
I  am  perplext,  and  often  stricken  mute 
Wondering  which  attained  the  higher  bliss, 
The  winged  insect,  or  the  chrysalis 
It  thrust  aside  with  unreluctant  foot. 
Spirit  of  verse,  that  still  elud'st  my  art, 
Thou  airy  phantom  that  dost  ever  haunt  me, 
O  never,  never  rest  upon  my  heart, 
If  when  I  have  thee  I  shall  little  want  thee ! 
Still  flit  away  in  moonlight,  rain,  and  dew, 
Will-of-the-wisp,  that  I  may  still  pursue ! 


IV. 

EGYPT. 

FANTASTIC  Sleep  is  busy  with  my  eyes: 

I  seem  in  some  waste  solitude  to  stand 

Once  ruled  of  Cheops:  upon  either  hand 

A  dark  illimitable  desert  lies, 

Sultry  and  still  —  a  realm  of  mysteries ; 

A  wide-browed  Sphinx,  half  buried  in  the  sand, 

With  orbless  sockets  stares  across  the  land, 

The  woefulest  thing  beneath  these  brooding  skies, 

Where  all  is  woeful,  weird-lit  vacancy. 

'Tis  neither  midnight,  twilight,  nor  moonrise. 

Lo !  while  I  gaze,  beyond  the  vast  sand-sea 

The  nebulous  clouds  are  downward  slowly  drawn, 

And  one  bleared  star,  faint-glimmering  like  a  bee, 

Is  shut  in  the  rosy  outstretched  hand  of  Dawn. 


V. 
EUTERPE. 

Now  if  Euterpe  held  me  not  in  scorn, 

I  'd  shape  a  lyric,  perfect,  fair,  and  round 

As  that  thin  band  of  gold  wherewith  I  bound 

Your  slender  finger  our  betrothal  morn. 

Not  of  Desire  alone  is  music  born, 

Not  till  the  Muse  wills  is  our  passion  crowned : 

Unsought  she  comes,  if  sought  but  seldom  -found. 

Hence  is  it  Poets  often  are  forlorn, 

Taciturn,  shy,  self -immolated,  pale, 

Taking  no  healthy  pleasure  in  their  kind  — 

Wrapt  in  their  dream  as  in  a  coat-of-mail. 

Hence  is  it  I,  the  least,  a  very  hind, 

Have  stolen  away  into  this  leafy  vale 

Drawn  by  the  flutings  of  the  silvery  wind. 


VI. 

AT  BAY  RIDGE,  LONG  ISLAND. 

PLEASANT  it  is  to  lie  amid  the  grass 
Under  these  shady  locusts,  half  the  day, 
Watching  the  ships  reflected  on  the  Bay, 
Topmast  and  shroud,  as  in  a  wizard's  glass: 
To  see  the  happy-hearted  martins  pass, 
Brushing  the  dew-drops  from  the  lilac  spray  : 
Or  else  to  hang  enamoured  o'er  some  lay 
Of  fairy  regions  :  or  to  muse,  alas  ! 
On  Dante,  exiled,  journeying  outworn ; 
On  patient  Milton's  sorrowfulest  eyes 
Shut  from  the  splendors  of  the  Night  and  Morn 
To  think  that  now,  beneath  the  Italian  skies, 
In  such  clear  air  as  this,  by  Tiber's  wave, 
Daisies  are  trembling  over  Keats' s  grave. 


VII. 

BY  THE  POTOMAC. 

THE  soft  new  grass  is  creeping  o'er  the  graves 
By  the  Potomac  ;  and  the  crisp  ground-flower 
Lifts  its  blue  cup  to  catch  the  passing  shower ; 
The  pine-cone  ripens,  and  the  long  moss  waves 
Its  tangled  gonfalons  above  our  braves. 
Hark,  what  a  burst  of  music  from  yon  bower !  — 
The  Southern  nightingale  that,  hour  by  hour, 
In  its  melodious  summer  madness  raves. 
Ah,  with  what  delicate  touches  of  her  hand, 
With  what  sweet  voices,  Nature  seeks  to  screen 
The  awful  Crime  of  this  distracted  land  — 
Sets  her  birds  singing,  while  she  spreads  her  green 
Mantle  of  velvet  where  the  Murdered  lie, 
As  if  to  hide  the  horror  from  God's  eye. 


SECOND    SERIES. 

I. 
ENAMORED  ARCHITECT  OF  AIRY  RHYME. 

ENAMORED  architect  of  airy  rhyme, 

Build  as  thou  wilt ;  heed  not  what  each  man  says. 

Good  souls,  but  innocent  of  dreamers'  ways, 

Will  come,  and  marvel  why  thou  wastest  time  ; 

Others,  beholding  how  thy  turrets  climb 

'Twixt   theirs   and  heaven,  will   hate  thee  all  their 

days; 

But  most  beware  of  those  who  come  to  praise. 
O  Wondersmith,  O  worker  in  sublime 
And  heaven-sent  dreams,  let  art  be  all  in  all ; 
Build  as  thou  wilt,  unspoiled  by  praise  or  blame, 
Build  as  thou  wilt,  and  as  thy  light  is  given  : 
Then,  if  at  last  the  airy  structure  fall, 
Dissolve,  and  vanish  —  take  thyself  no  shame. 
They  fail,  and  they  alone,  who  have  not  striven. 


II. 
THREE  FLOWERS. 

TO    BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

HEREWITH  I  send  you  three  pressed  withered  flowers 

This  one  was  white,  with  golden  star;  this,  blue 

As  Capri's  cave  ;  that,  purple  and  shot  through 

With  sunset-orange.     Where  the  Duomo  towers 

In  diamond  air,  and  under  hanging  bowers 

The  Arno  glides,  this  faded  violet  grew 

On  Landor's  grave ;  from  Landor's  heart  it  drew 

Its  magic  azure  in  the  long  spring  hours. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  Pyramid 

Of  Caius  Cestius  was  the  daisy  found, 

White  as  the  soul  of  Keats  in  Paradise. 

The  pansy  —  there  were  hundreds  of  them,  hid 

In  the  thick  grass  that  folded  Shelley's  mound, 

Guarding  his  ashes  with  most  lovely  eyes. 

16 


III. 
AN  ALPINE  PICTURE. 

STAND  here  and  look,  and  softly  hold  your  breath 

Lest  the  vast  avalanche  come  crashing  down  ! 

How  many  miles  away  is  yonder  town 

Set  flower-wise  in  the  valley  ?     Far  beneath  — 

A  scimitar  half  drawn  from  out  its  sheath  — 

The  river  curves  through  meadows  newly  mown  ; 

The  ancient  water-courses  are  all  strown 

With  drifts  of  snow,  fantastic  wreath  on  wreath; 

And  peak  on  peak  against  the  turquoise-blue 

The  Alps  like  towering  campanili  stand, 

Wondrous,  with  pinnacles  of  frozen  rain. 

Silvery,  crystal,  like  the  prism  in  hue. 

O  tell  me,  Love,  if  this  be  Switzerland  — 

Or  is  it  but  the  frost-work  on  the  pane? 


IV. 

TO  L.  T.  IN  FLORENCE. 

You  by  the  Arno  shape  your  marble  dream, 
Under  the  cypress  and  the  olive  trees, 
While  I,  this  side  the  wild,  wind-beaten  seas, 
Unrestful  by  the  Charles's  placid  stream, 
Long  once  again  to  catch  the  golden  gleam 
Of  Brunelleschi's  dome,  and  lounge  at  ease 
In  those  pleached  gardens  and  fair  galleries. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  you  envy  me,  and  deem 
My  star  the  happier,  since  it  holds  me  here. 
Even  so,  one  time,  beneath  the  cypresses 
My  heart  turned  longingly  across  the  sea, 
Aching  with  love  for  thee,  New  England  dear ! 
And  I  'd  have  given  all  Titian's  goddesses 
For  one  poor  cowslip  or  anemone. 


V. 

ENGLAND. 

WHILE  men  pay  reverence  to  mighty  things, 
They  must  revere  thee,  thou  blue-cinctured  isle 
Of  England  —  not  to-day,  but  this  long  while 
In  the  front  of  nations,  Mother  of  great  kings, 
Soldiers,  and  poets.     Round  thee  the  Sea  flings 
His  steel-bright  arm,  and  shields  thee  from  the  guile 
And  hurt  of  France.     Secure,  with  august  smile, 
Thou  sittest,  and  the  East  its  tribute  brings. 
Some  say  thy  old-time  power  is  on  the  wane, 
Thy  moon  of  grandeur  filled,  contracts  at  length  — 
They  see  it  darkening  down  from  less  to  less. 
Let  but  a  hostile  hand  make  threat  again, 
And  they  shall  see  thee  in  thy  ancient  strength, 
Each  iron  sinew  quivering,  lioness! 


'  *: 


VI. 

THE  LORELEI. 

YONDER  we  see  it  from  the  steamer's  deck, 
The  haunted  Mountain  of  the  Lorelei  - 
The  o'erhanging  crags  sharp-cut  against  a  sky 
Clear  as  a  sapphire  without  flaw  or  fleck. 
'T  was  here  the  Siren  lay  in  wait  to  wreck 
The  fisher-lad.     At  dusk,  as  he  passed  by, 
Perchance  he  'd  hear  her  tender  amorous  sigh, 
And,  seeing  the  wondrous  whiteness  of  her  neck, 
Perchance  would  halt,  and  lean  towards  the  shore ; 
Then  she  by  that  soft  magic  which  she  had 
Would  lure  him,  and  in  gossamers  of  her  hair, 
Gold  upon  gold,  would  wrap  him  o'er  and  o'er, 
Wrap  him,  and  sing  to  him,  and  set  him  mad, 
Then  drag  him  down  to  no  man  knoweth  where. 


VII. 

BARBERRIES. 

IN  scarlet  clusters  o'er  the  gray  stone-wall 
The  barberries  lean  in  thin  autumnal  air: 
Just  when  the  fields  and  garden-plots  are  bare, 
And  ere  the  green  leaf  takes  the  tint  of  fall, 
They  come,  to  make  the  eye  a  festival ! 
Along  the  road,  for  miles,  their  torches  flare. 
Ah,  if  your  deep-sea  coral  were  but  rare 
(The  damask  rose  might  envy  it  withal), 
What  bards  had  sung  your  praises  long  ago, 
Called  you  fine  names  in  honey-worded  books  — 
The  rosy  tramps  of  turnpike  and  of  lane, 
September's  blushes,  Ceres'  lips  aglow, 
Little  Red-Ridinghoods,  for  your  sweet  looks !  — 
But  your  plebeian  beauty  is  in  vain. 


VIII. 

HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL. 

THEY  never  crowned  him,  never  knew  his  worth, 

But  let  him  go  unlaurelled  to  the  grave  : 

Hereafter  there  are  guerdons  for  the  brave, 

Roses  for  martyrs  who  wear  thorns  on  earth, 

Balms  for  bruised  hearts  that  languish  in  the  dearth 

Of  human  love.     So  let  the  lilies  wave 

Above  him,  nameless.     Little  did  he  crave 

Men's  praises.     Modestly,  with  kindly  mirth, 

Not  sad  nor  bitter,  he  accepted  fate  — 

Drank  deep  of  life,  knew  books,  and  hearts  of  men, 

Cities  and  camps,  and  war's  immortal  woe, 

Yet  bore  through  all  (such  virtue  in  him  sate 

His  Spirit  is  not  whiter  now  than  then  !) 

A  simple,  loyal  nature,  pure  as  snow. 


IX. 

"EVEN  THIS  WILL  PASS  AWAY." 

TOUCHED  with  the  delicate  green  of  early  May* 

Or  later,  when  the  rose  unveils  her  face, 

The  world  hangs  glittering  in  star-strown  space, 

Fresh  as  a  jewel  found  but  yesterday. 

And  yet  't  is  very  old ;  what  tongue  may  say 

How  old  it  is?     Race  follows  upon  race, 

Forgetting  and  forgotten ;  in  their  place 

Sink  tower  and  temple  ;  nothing  long  may  stay. 

We  build  on  tombs,  and  live  our  day,  and  die; 

From  out  our  dust  new  towers  and  temples  start ; 

Our  very  name  becomes  a  mystery. 

What  cities  no  man  ever  heard  of  lie 

Under  the  glacier,  in  the  mountain's  heart, 

In  violet  glooms  beneath  the  moaning  sea ! 


X. 

AT  STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 

TO   EDWIN   BOOTH. 

THUS  spake  his  dust  (so  seemed  it  as  I  read 
The  words)  :    Good  frend,  for  Jesvs'  sake  forbeare 
(Poor  ghost!)    To  digg  the  dvst  enclosed  heare  — 
Then  came  the  malediction  on  the  head 
Of  whoso  dare  disturb   the  sacred  dead. 
Outside  the  mavis  whistled  strong  and  clear, 
And,  touched  with  the  sweet  glamour  of  the  year, 
The  winding  Avon  murmured  in  its  bed. 
But  in  the  solemn  Stratford  church  the  air 
Was  chill  and  dank,  and  on  the  foot-worn  tomb 
The  evening  shadows  deepened  momently: 
Then  a  great  awe  crept  on  me,  standing  there, 
As  if  some  speechless  Presence  in  the  gloom 
Was  hovering,  and  fain  would  speak  with  me. 


XI. 
THE  RARITY  OF  GENIUS. 

WHILE  yet  my  lip  was  breathing  youth's  first  breath, 

Too  young  to  feel  the  utmost  of  their  spell 

I  saw  Medea  and  Phaedra  in  Eachel: 

Later  I  saw  the  great  Elizabeth. 

Rachel,  Ristori  —  we  shall  taste  of  death 

Ere  we  meet  spirits  like  these :  in  one  age  dwell 

Not  many  such ;  a  century  may  tell 

Its  hundred  beads  before  it  braid  a  wreath 

For  two  so  queenly  foreheads.     If  it  take 

to  form  a  diamond,  grain  on  grain, 

to  crystallize  its  fire  and  dew  — 
By  what  slow  processes  must  Nature  make 
Her  Shakespeares  and  her  Raffaels  ?   Great  the  gain 
If  she  spoil  thousands  making  one  or  two. 


XII. 

SLEEP. 

to  soft  Sleep  we  give  ourselves  away, 
And  in  a  dream  as  in  a  fairy  bark 
Drift  on  and  on  through  the  enchanted  dark 
To  purple  daybreak — little  thought  we  pay 
To  that  sweet  bitter  world  we  know  by  day. 
We  are  clean  quit  of  it,  as  is  a  lark 
So  high  in  heaven  no  human  eye  can  mark 
The  thin  swift  pinion  cleaving  through  the  gray. 
Till  we  awake  ill  fate  can  do  no  ill, 
The  resting  heart  shall  not  take  up  again 
The  heavy  load  that  yet  must  make  it  bleed ; 
For  this  brief  space  the  loud  world's  voice  is  still, 
No  faintest  echo  of  it  brings  us  pain. 
How  will  it  be  when  we  shall  sleep  indeed  ? 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-70m-9,'65(F7151s4)458 


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PS1020 

Aldricli,   T.B.  E82 

The  poems. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
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